


Your Slightest Look

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Body Image, Bottom Castiel, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Play, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel Milton moves from Boston to Klamath Falls, Oregon to escape his family and start a new life as a religious studies professor at Bear Valley College, he never anticipates finding himself interested in someone like Dean Winchester.  Can a stubborn heart be changed by a patient mind?  If they want to make things work, they both have to learn that nothing worth having comes easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts in late July. Bear Valley College is completely made up (their mascot is a bear cub, by the way, and their school colors are maroon and silver); Klamath Falls, Oregon is real. I've taken a few liberties with KF and there's a tiny bit of the canon universe blended into the story, but I hope I've done it smoothly enough that you won't notice.
> 
> [Your Slightest Touch](http://mostly10.com/post/57434411681/your-slightest-touch-art-companion-to-your) is a companion art piece. This story was beta'd by the lovely, talented and _patient_ [barefootmorning](http://barefootmorning.tumblr.com/) as well as another equally lovely, talented, and patient person who wishes to remain anonymous.
> 
>  The title is taken from e.e. cummings' poem [somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15401).
> 
> _Standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters or any cities in Oregon._
> 
>  Go, Cubs!

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief when he passes the brightly colored sign that exclaims, “Welcome to Klamath Falls, Oregon!”  Leaving his family three-thousand miles away to start a new life on his own terms is well worth a week cooped up in his Prius and the attendant aches and pains.  He feels himself beginning to relax already as the car’s navigation system takes him off the highway and through the tree-lined streets of his new neighborhood.

When his little baby blue car comes to a stop at the last stop sign before his house, he takes a moment to study the park across the intersection.  It’s small and rather empty for mid-afternoon and the ample shade makes him itch with the need to go out and commune with nature.  All through the drive from Boston, he’d marveled at the ever-changing scenery and the closer he got to Oregon, the more he was certain this had been a good decision.  The plains of the Midwest gave way to the Rocky Mountains, which in turn gave way to the basins and rivers of the Northwest.

He doesn’t realize a car is stopped behind him until the driver starts to honk.  Properly chastised, he waves his hand in the universal “sorry-I’m-an-idiot” and, looking both ways to make sure there’s still nothing coming, he takes off again to close the last two blocks to his new home.  It’s a modest home, one story with cedar plank siding, and it sits nestled in the middle of a large lot.  It’s so effectively shrouded by trees that if he didn’t know a house existed, he wouldn’t see it.  The  knot in Castiel’s stomach loosens a little more as he comes to a stop and kills the car.  Perfect city, perfect house, perfectly situated on the opposite coast from his family.

Before he exits the car, he pulls out his cell and looks at the screen.  There are six new missed calls since the last time he checked two hours ago, all from Anna.  He shakes his head with a fond chuckle and opens the door to get out as he taps the screen to call her back, closing the door behind him.  She answers in half a ring.

“Castiel!  Where are you?  Why didn’t you answer your phone?  I thought you were dead!”

“Hey, sis,” he answers with a smile, “I’m finally in Klamath Falls.  Just got here.  And you _know_ I don’t answer my phone while I’m driving.  Is everything okay?”  He stretches one leg, then the other, shaking them to rid himself of the aches that have settled in his knees and ankles.

“Everything’s peachy except the whole you being in _Oregon_ thing.”  The playfulness in her voice is colored by a familiar worried tone.

“Ah.  You’ll get used to it.  I’m only a phone call away, you know.  And you can come visit me whenever you want!  You’d love it here; it’s beautiful.  And it smells _wonderful_.”  As though to convince her, he leans back against the car and inhales deeply as he surveys his sprawling front yard.  It needs attention, what with the dead flowers and browned patches of grass, but it’s still a beautiful yard.  All the more beautiful because it’s _his_.

“Who tells someone they should come visit because it smells good?”

“Wonderful,” he corrects, grinning as he walks off the gravel driveway into the yard and starts picking up the smaller fallen branches to put in neat piles.

“You are _so_ strange.”  There’s a pause and before Castiel can answer the accusation, she continues, “But you sound better than you have in months.”

“I feel good.”  It’s a soft confession, but laden with relief.  “I feel like I can breathe out here.  I feel like I left Boston a lifetime ago.”

“I’m glad.”  Castiel hears Anna’s sigh although she tries to hide it.  “I know you had to get out of here, but I already miss you.  I mean, who will I boss around with you gone?  I’m the baby now!”

Castiel laughs as he tosses a pine cone into the steadily growing pile of branches and shakes his head, straightening back up to stretch again as he answers, “That’s most unfortunate.”

“You suck.”  Anna breaks into laughter, too, and it eases Castiel’s mind.  She’ll be just fine without him.  They all will, he knows.  And she’s probably the only one who will even miss him.

 “Thank you, Anna.”

“For what?”  There’s still a smile in her voice and a fondness she never tries to hide.

“For being you. 

He cuts off the expected smart alec reply before she can get it out, reminding her this last leg of the trip was a seven hour drive and he really, really needs to pee.  With a promise to call her again before he goes to bed, she finally lets him hang up and he slips his phone back into his jeans pocket and looks at the small piece of the yard he’s managed to clear of branches and pinecones while he talked.

“Perfect,” he murmurs to no one at all.

***

Castiel is in no hurry to trade the interior of a car for the interior of a house; so he takes his time, working methodically across a swathe of his front yard to pick up sticks and other debris and continue building the row of neat little piles in his wake.  While he works, his mind begins to wander, building a plan for the next several days without any real thought.

The realtor set up his utilities so that everything would be ready when he got here, which means there’s nothing to take care of on that front.  The moving company should have arrived yesterday with his belongings and he can only hope they didn’t leave a mess behind.  He has everything he needs for tonight packed into his car or sent ahead with his other things, so a trip to the store can wait until in the morning.

The campus administration offices open Monday, so that gives him this weekend to get his house in some semblance of order before he needs to go meet with Dr. Barnes and Mr. Crowley.  He gives himself a mental pat on the back for his foresight once more with the realization that he has three weeks to get settled in before he has to teach his first class.  Surely that will be plenty of time to have his home livable and his office ready for all the hours he’ll be spending there.

He’s a little nervous about meeting with the formidable Mr. Crowley, but since he’s already secured his place as an assistant professor for the religious studies program, he doesn’t figure anything can go _too_ horribly awry.  It’s a formality.  One of many.  Castiel sighs and launches a pinecone toward a far pile.  Sometimes there are too many formalities in academia, but it certainly beats being a preacher like his father wanted him to.

Castiel isn’t about to ruin his good mood by heading down _that_ path, so instead he decides it’s time to see what state the movers left his house in.  He inhales deeply of the pine-scented air and lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face before it can run into his eyes.  He’s unaccustomed to this warm, humid weather and the tacky feel it leaves on his skin and clothes.  He takes one last look over the half-cleaned yard and decides it’s good enough for now as he turns to head toward the house, stopping at his car to grab the backpack on the way.

***

Fitting the key into the lock and twisting it, Castiel lets himself into the house. _His house_ , he corrects.  He closes the heavy, intricately carved door and locks it behind him, then leans back against it for a moment, breathing in the scent of fresh paint mixed with cedar in the entryway.  A few steps away, a glance around the small living room tells him that the moving company left most all of the boxes here instead of in the rooms written neatly on each box’s label.  

The absence of beds and other extraneous furniture in the room soothes the annoyance that flares as he kicks off his sandals then searches out the air conditioner controls.   When the air conditioner kicks on with a soft hum, he heads down the hallway to take a much-needed shower.  Castiel drops his backpack on the bathroom floor and turns on the spray to let the water warm up while he strips out of his sweaty t-shirt and jeans.  

The steam beginning to fill the room smells different from the water he’s familiar with, a fact he spends a full minute appreciating.  The bathroom is small, but tidy, painted in pale aqua hues with a creamy tile floor and another intricately carved door.  One of the things that sold him on this house was the homey feel of the handcrafted woodwork throughout.

He studies his face in the mirror, deep blue eyes staring soulfully back at him as he rubs his palm hard against his scruffy jaw.  He reaches up, pushes his hair away from his forehead, leaving it standing messily as he studies the lines etched in his skin.  Twenty-nine years can weigh heavy on your face when you’ve spent most of it unhappy.  With closer study, Castiel finds himself immensely pleased that both the almost-beard and slightly too-long hair would meet with his father’s disapproval.  

He gives his reflection a grin and a wink before he gathers soap and shampoo from his backpack and steps into the shower.  The water is scorching, just the way he likes it.  Once his body adjusts to the stinging spray and he can breathe again, Castiel closes his eyes and muses that heaven, if it exists, must include a lot of very hot showers.  He stands with his back to the water and begins to lather himself, taking his time and letting the soap and sweat and the other remnants of the last week wash away.  By the time he’s rinsed his hair to squeaky cleanness and is groping blindly for his towel, the water has started to cool.

After toweling himself off briskly, Castiel pulls on clean boxers and a loose pair of shorts and makes his way out of the still steamy bathroom to tackle the task of bringing order to his house.  The living room is pleasantly cooler than when he left it and he makes a mental checklist of what needs to be done.  The first thing on the agenda is getting boxes to the rooms they belong in.  

Half an hour into re-stacking and sorting and carrying boxes of all sizes to the furthest corners of the house, Castiel is starving.  He retrieves his phone from his discarded jeans and figures out ordering pizza, then dives back into his work.  He marvels at the beauty of the small house, with its woodwork and  gentle coloring.  By the time the pizza arrives, he is so lost in the routine of opening each box to determine its exact contents, then re-closing it and dragging it off to where it belongs that the doorbell startles him.

After a moment’s confusion and upon remembering food is to be delivered, Castiel rushes to the door and peers out the peephole.  The delivery girl looks cautiously around the small porch at the front of the house and turns to study the  yard.  She is small in stature, with dark hair and he sees a flash of brown eyes that brim with curiosity.  When he opens the door and smiles, she takes a step back, head snapping around to look at him.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you,” he offers softly as her gaze drops to his bare chest and trails slowly back up to his face.  Her eyes widen when they meet his again, but she smiles tentatively.

“It’s.. It’s okay.  We thought it was a prank call or something.  I didn’t know anyone moved in here.  Castiel Milton?  Large pepperoni with extra cheese?”

“That’s me.  I just moved in.”  He gives another smile and reaches into the pocket of his shorts for his wallet.  The girl, whose name tag reads Angela, is still staring as he asks,  “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s..  uh..  $14.83.”

He pulls out a $20 and trades it to her for the pizza, waving off the offered change, then thanks Angela for the pizza. Before he can get another word in, she blurts out “Your eyes are so _blue_ ” and turns to bolt down the cobbled path back to the driveway and her car, leaving him standing, speechless, in the doorway.  When his surprise clears, he blinks and mutters “thanks?” to thin air and retreats into the house with his pizza, contemplating the weirdness of people.

He leaves the pizza box in the middle of the floor while he digs out a glass from one of the boxes in the kitchen and a book from a box labeled “important books” in his office.  With a glass of cold water in hand, he drops gracefully to sit on the floor with the pizza and a beat up copy of _The Horse and His Boy_.  The quiet hum of the air conditioner and the flipping of pages are the only sounds as Castiel savors the first relaxed meal he’s had since he left Boston.

_Meow._

It’s a soft sound from the hallway, questioning and small-voiced.   _Meow_.  Bolder and closer.  Castiel looks up from his book to see a tiny, solid black kitten staring at him from the doorway.   _Meow?_  The kitten ventures closer, lured by the smell of pizza.  It has big green eyes and a bristly tail and when Castiel puts his book down, it begins to move slowly closer.

“Well, hello, little guy.  Where’d you come from?”

It watches him warily, edging around the few scattered boxes to get nearer and nearer, meowing plaintively and eyeing the open box of pizza.  When the kitten is just outside Castiel’s reach, it stops and sits down, looking up at him.  He tilts his head and watches, pulling a bit of cheese off a slice of pizza and offering it.  The kitten meows again, short and jarring, and licks its lips.

“It’s okay, kitty.  Take it if you’re hungry,” he murmurs softly as he stretches to hold the cheese in the kitten’s face.  The kitten sniffs it thoroughly while Castiel stays stock still, not even daring to breathe.  Finally, the kitten licks the cheese once before grabbing it from his fingers and running back to the hallway with the prize.  With each return for more cheese and pepperoni, the kitten grows braver, gets closer, stays longer.  Finally sated, it crawls into Castiel’s lap, purring so hard its ears and tail shiver to their ends.

The book forgotten, Castiel busies himself with scratching the kitten’s ears and down his back, whispering praise.  When he finally forces himself to get up and move the last of the boxes to the rooms they belong in, the kitten follows him every step of the way, meowing and making a nuisance of itself.  Castiel is delighted by the way the kitten bats at his ankles when he walks and curls around his legs, rubbing and purring when he stops.  

With the last of the boxes moved into the bedroom, he finds the open window through which the kitten must have gotten in and closes it.  The kitten watches with wide green eyes before it jumps up to grab the hem of his shorts and tries to haul itself up his leg, meowing for attention.

“I think you’ll do,” Castiel tells the little black ball of fluff earnestly as he reaches down to pluck it from his leg.  He smiles and holds it against his chest, his big hands dwarfing it as his nimble fingers seek out itchy spots under its chin and behind its ears.  “But, you’ll have to have a name if you want to stay.”

_Meow_ , the kitten answers as it crawls up Castiel’s chest to rub its face against his scruffy jaw.

“I’ll call you Aslan.”  He laughs and pulls the kitten away from his face only to have him return a second later.  “I think it suits your lionish nature.  What do you think?”

_Meow._


	2. Chapter 2

The feel of a warm mouth sliding down his cock is what brings Dean to consciousness.  He blinks in the bright morning light and rubs his eyes as he reaches down with his free hand to encourage the mouth’s owner.  He hums approval around Dean’s growing hardness and Dean murmurs sleepy pleasure, stroking the man’s hair before wrapping his fingers through a fistful.  Dean watches as he starts to bob his head up and down, tongue sliding quickly side to side along the underside of his cock.    

“ _Christ_ ,” he groans, “you’re so _good_ at that.”

His hips find a rhythm as he wakes up more fully, arching up to tease his cockhead against the back of a willing throat.  His fingers tighten in the man’s hair, pushing him down a little more and a little more until Dean’s cock slides into his throat.  One hand is on Dean’s hip, fingers curled against his skin; the other is cupping his balls, tugging and squeezing gently.

“Fuck..”  He’s breathing shallow and ragged as he feels the first tendrils of orgasm wrap around his insides, pulling his muscles taut as the man’s head bobs faster.  Slurping sounds fill the air, filthy and hot.  Within a few moments, Dean’s hips are bucking up and the man is swallowing him down again and that’s the end.  Orgasm hits like a gut punch and he only has time to grunt a vague warning before his cock jerks and pulse after pulse of hot come flood the mouth and throat, enveloping his cock in unbearable heat.

Dean pants and squirms, muscles twitching as he paws at the messy black hair and whispers praise.  A shudder slides down his spine, a groan slipping through his parted lips as the jerk continues to bob slowly up and down his rapidly softening cock.  Dean strokes the man’s hair back from his face when he looks up and contents himself with licking teasingly at the base of Dean’s cock. 

“Good mornin’, Chris,” he rumbles breathlessly, his voice thick with sleep and arousal.  The man laughs and presses a kiss to Dean’s hip and another to his stomach on his way to sprawl out against Dean’s side with his arm thrown across his chest.

 “Morning,” Chris answers, a smile in his breathless voice.

Dean slides his hand down Chris’ muscular back to squeeze his ass and pull him closer, kissing the top of his head.  Last night was the third night in a row Chris has ended up in Dean’s bed and although he’ll admit the guy is fun, it’s getting a little too close to “relationship” territory for his taste.  When he’s gotten his bearings and caught his breath, he kisses the top of his head again.

“Breakfast?”

“Mind if I shower first?”  He looks up as he asks, fixing Dean with a hazel gaze.  He’s younger than Dean’s usual, handsome, with full lips and sandy pink freckles spread across his cheeks.  Dean watches for a moment, smiling as he fixes this vision in his mind.  

“‘Course not,” he answers and he lets his eyelashes flutter closed as Chris leans in for a kiss.  It’s sweet and soft and he can taste the salty bitterness of his own come as he presses the kiss deeper.  When Chris pulls away, lips lingering against his for a second, Dean opens his eyes.  With a wink, he breaks completely away from Dean’s lips and pushes up off the bed in one graceful motion.   _God bless dancers_ , Dean thinks.

When he hears the shower running in the adjoining bathroom, Dean yawns and stretches and drags himself out of bed.  He pulls on clean boxers and last night’s t-shirt and heads downstairs to start breakfast.  When Chris joins him, Dean is plating bacon and scrambled eggs and finishing up the toast.  He’s in last night’s rumpled clothes and they cling in all the right places, a solid reminder of why Dean brought him home.

“Mornin’ again,” Dean greets, smiling as he pours a second cup of coffee, adds sugar, and sets both it and the second plate in front of Chris at the breakfast bar.  “I made bacon and eggs.  Breakfast is _not_ my forte. 

“It’s perfect,” Chris replies, leaning in closer to whisper conspiratorially as Dean takes the seat beside his, “I already had what I wanted for breakfast, anyway.”

And damned if the heat of a blush doesn’t crawl up the back of Dean’s neck and make him squirm and shiver on his barstool.  He grins and winks, then tucks into his breakfast.  They eat in companionable silence, a dark cloud forming over Dean’s head the longer they sit.  There’s a reason he sticks to one-night stands.

Chris is watching him as they eat and Dean sees understanding clouding around the edges of his mood, too.  When Dean takes a deep breath and launches into the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, Chris just nods along as though he’s heard it a thousand times.  A tight smile crosses his face, but he doesn’t say much except “yeah, I get it” and “no, don’t worry about it”.  All things considered, he takes it much better than the last guy Dean gave the spiel to.  Hell, he even stays to help load the dishwasher after they finish eating.

Dean Winchester, professional asshole.  With Chris gone, his mood blackens and he grabs a morning beer as he drops into a sulk on the couch in his well-appointed den.  He flips on the TV and searches his DVR for the last episode of his favorite show.  Although he’d never admit to anyone that he’s hooked on _Dr. Sexy, MD_ , he can’t deny that it’s compelling television.  He can’t wait to see what Dr. Sexy decided the new intern’s fate will be after the catastrophic mistake in the operating room.

The day is uneventful, spent watching mindless TV.  The thought crosses his mind that he should get a dog, but he quickly dismisses it.  He’s too busy during the school year to properly care for a dog and too irresponsible during the summer.  It’s not like he needs company anyway.  Dean skips out on a pick-me-up trip to the Bluebird Bar & Grill for fear of seeing Chris there and instead calls his brother before he heads off to bed.

“‘Lo?”  With one syllable, Dean can hear that Sam is distracted, the product of too many years spent in quarters too close.

“Hey, man.  You busy? 

“Mm.  Little bit,” Sam answers, then clears his throat as Dean hears shuffling papers on the other end of the line.  “What’s up?”

“Nothin’.  I was just missing your ugly face and thought I’d call since it’d been a few days.  How are things?”

“Good.  Things are good, man.  Jess won the case she has been working her ass off on for the last six months.  It was huge!  She’s definitely going to make partner soon.  There’s no way she won’t.”  Dean can hear the pride in Sam’s voice and hear Jess in the background grumbling playfully at him to stop making such a big deal about it.  He smiles and holds the phone a little tighter, swallowing down the lump in his throat. 

“That’s great, Sammy,” Dean replies, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest.  “I’m really happy for you both.  Jess is a good one.  You wouldn’t be able to tie your own shoes without that girl.”

Sam laughs and agrees, then turns the conversation around.  “So, how’s your summer going?  You enjoying your time off from your beloved students?”

“You know it.”  Dean nods to himself.  “I’m just enjoying the temperate climate and sleeping ’til noon and not doing a damned thing I don’t want to do.”

“Found a boyfriend yet?”  Sam sounds distracted again with more shuffling of papers.

“About a hundred.”  The best thing to do, Dean knows, is play it off.  Sam worries too much about his lack of a steady relationship as it is.  Ever since Victor, he’s been trying to get Dean to get back on the proverbial horse and Dean is having none of it.  Sex is good. Relationships end in misery.  “Just had one last night.  Pretty little thing, you’d have liked him.”

Sam tsks and grumbles something noncommittal about coming to visit and find Dean a _real_ boyfriend and it makes Dean laugh.  “When _are_ you and Jess gonna come visit me?  I get bored up here, you know.  I need someone to watch me do cool things and be impressed by how awesome I am and shit.”

“Soon,” Sam answers a little too quickly, sounding guilty before he covers it with a laugh.  “We’re gonna come see you real soon.”

“Of course you are, Sammy.”  Dean doesn’t hold it against Sam.  He’s a rising star lawyer and a busy man, it’s not like he has vacation days coming out his ears.  “‘Course you are.”

“I promise.  We’ve just been so busy.  But, it should be slowing down soon and we’ll visit.  Maybe for the Snowflake Festival?  You’re always telling me how great that is.  Maybe we’ll come up for that.”

“You should,” Dean agrees easily, then he grins and adds, “Or just send Jess.  I don’t even care if you come.”

Sam splutters indignantly and the conversation settles into smalltalk. By the end of it, Dean’s mood has improved considerably and he lets Sam get back to work after further promises of a visit “real soon”.  Dean takes a shower and crawls into his king-size bed alone for the first time in a week.

***

Since Dean refuses to teach summer classes at the college, he uses the time to catch up on all the movies he doesn’t get to see during the school year.  His house is much too big for Dean alone; with the most comfortable furniture he could find and the best electronics money can buy.  One product of growing up with less than nothing is that Dean never takes his life of plenty for granted. 

He spends most of his time in the den watching movies or catching up on the soap operas he will swear with his dying breath that he’d never, ever watch.  Occasionally, when the mood takes him, he plugs in his beat up old electric guitar and plays some of the classic rock he grew up on.  What he _doesn’t_ do is think about nice it would be to wake up beside someone he wants to keep around.  Instead, he turns the TV up a little louder and maybe talks to the guy who delivers his pizza for a little longer than is strictly necessary.

Two or three nights a week he hits The Bluebird, his favorite bar, and picks up a guy for a little fun.  He’s a good looking man in his mid-thirties, built like a quarterback and with a smile that can dazzle just about anyone _and_ their mama.  Add a little alcohol and he’s irresistible.  And, if all else fails, he quotes poetry.  That has them eating out of his hand in no time flat, every time. 

Dean’s life is good as long as he doesn’t think too hard about what’s missing from it.


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with Dr. Barnes and Mr. Crowley is uneventful and within a few days, Castiel falls easily into his new routine.  He thrives on routine, on knowing where to be and when to be there and what is expected of him.  He gets up early and goes for a run, then returns home to meditate for as long as Aslan will allow.  When he can no longer stand the interruptions, he plays with the kitten and makes breakfast for them both, then heads off to his office, walking or bicycling the beautiful trail that cuts beside the river to get there.

People look at him strangely when he shows up to the campus every morning at seven a.m. on the dot without _having_ to be there, but he finds it refreshing to start work before the Building Four is overrun with students.  He leaves his office door open, and occasionally other professors or students stop by to greet him or ask about the curious collection of Christian artifacts that are scattered around the small office.

His favorite is the tiny glass encased bit of one of the Dead Sea Scrolls that his brother, Michael, gave him for Christmas in his freshman year of college.  It’s such a small piece of history, but an important one, and he will talk for hours about the impact the Scrolls had on Christianity - and the impact they _could_ have, if only scholars would get their act together - if given the chance.  Usually, he notices when people’s eyes start to glaze over and tries to control his enthusiasm, but not without great effort.

Castiel notices that one man looks in curiously every time he passes the open door, but he always looks away quickly without acknowledging Castiel’s presence and keeps walking.  It’s not new to him for people to be put off by his field or his specialty, but the man’s reaction seems odd even by Castiel’s “normal”.  He can’t help wondering why the guy never stops to introduce himself since God knows Castiel sees him talking to everyone else in the hallway _outside_ his office.

The man is tall and muscular with broad shoulders and short, sandy hair.  He also has a penchant for classic rock tees that cling across his wide chest; not that Castiel has noticed anything of the sort.  It’s impossible not to notice, though, when his booming laugh and obvious flirtations with both men and women happen to take place right outside Castiel’s door.  He learns that the man’s name is Dr. Winchester and that he’s quick to tell a joke and to laugh and free with his affection.  Castiel knows Dr. Winchester’s type, but is careful to keep his distaste to himself and doesn’t make any effort to introduce himself.  It’s not as though Castiel sees him that often, anyway.

Instead, he brushes up on the texts to be used in his teaching and works on his curriculum, outlining each of the classes he’s meant to have carefully within the guidelines he was given by the school.  Of the three classes he will be teaching in his first semester, he’s most excited about “Apocalyptic Traditions in the New Testament”.  The New Testament and early Christianity are his areas of expertise and what he feels he has the most important messages about.

Although Castiel loves scholarship on its own merit, he can’t wait to start imparting the knowledge he’s gained to his students.  As the days stretch into weeks and the start of classes gets nearer, he grows more and more excited and nervous for the first day.  He was a teaching assistant for two years, but it hardly compares to having his own classes and he’s more than a little worried that his quiet demeanor won’t command the respect of his students.

***

The Monday before classes start Castiel stops by the school’s administrative offices in Building One to check on the availability of his semester schedule.  Mr. Henriksen, the handsome but harried advisor who works with first-year professors, greets him with a growl when he enters the main office.

“Your schedule is on the counter with all the others if that’s what you’re here for.  If not, it can wait until tomorrow.”

Castiel blinks and stares for a moment, taken aback by the hostility in his voice.  He feels kind of sorry for the guy since he seems to be in a constant state of playing catch up.  Castiel mumbles a “thank you” and digs through the pile until he finds his schedule of classes.  A quick scan of it reveals that his multiple requests for no classes on Wednesday mornings have been either forgotten or ignored.  He glances over at Mr. Henriksen, who doesn’t look like he’s at all in the mood to deal with another problem, then steels himself and approaches.  Castiel had been assured his request would not be a problem.

“Excuse me, Mr. Henriksen.”

“ _What_?”  The man glares up, his dark eyes narrowed and his usually smooth brown face pinched in annoyance.  Castiel takes a step back reflexively.

“I understand that you’re busy, but I wondered if you have a moment?”

“Do I _look_ like I ‘have a moment’?”

“Not really, but I..  Uhm.. It’s just that I can’t teach classes on Wednesday mornings.  It’s -“

“Your schedule can’t be changed this close to the start of classes.  Student schedules have already been made available.”

“But, you don’t -“

“I _said_ it can’t be changed, Dr. Milton.”  He places the stack of papers in his hand purposefully on the desk as though to calm himself then looks back up at Castiel.  His tone is flat; sounding like he’s already given this speech a hundred times today.  “If you needed specific hours or days off, you should have asked in advance and not waited until the schedule was finalized.  You can’t expect everyone else to shift _their_ schedules to accommodate your inability to plan ahead.”

Castiel bristles at both the tone and the assumption that this is somehow _his_ fault.  He slams the schedule down on the man’s desk much harder than he meant to and leans down.

“I DID ask,” he growls, leaning closer.  “Repeatedly.  I asked you and..  And Dr. Barnes and Mr. Crowley. I have both the requests and the final approval in writing and I would be _glad_ to show you both if you don’t believe me.”  

“Well, what do you..” Mr. Henriksen starts, but Castiel won’t be interrupted.

“I will _not_ work on Wednesday mornings, so you’d goddamned well better find someone else to take that class or move it to the afternoon or _something._ ” 

Mr. Henriksen leans back in his chair and watches the outburst coolly.  The composed-to-the-point-of-bored look on his face makes Castiel’s blood boil, and he can tell instantly that he won’t be getting any help.  Castiel stands back up, smooths down his tie, and glares with narrowed eyes.  Mr. Henriksen shrugs his shoulders and returns his attention to the stack of papers on his desk.

“I can’t help you. 

“You _won’t_ help me,” Castiel charges with a hiss before he tears the schedule in half and drops it on the desk.  “And I _won’t_ be here Wednesday mornings, so I guess we’re all screwed.”

When he turns to stalk indignantly out of the office, he runs smack into Dr. Winchester, their bodies colliding so violently it nearly knocks them both over.  

“Shit!”  Castiel scrambles to regain his composure and finds himself staring into the greenest eyes he’s ever seen, gone wide with surprise.  A slow smile crosses Dr. Winchester’s face as he stares unabashedly.  Castiel finds himself blushing and stammering, though he couldn’t say for sure _why_.  So much for a graceful exit.

“I am so sorry.  I didn’t.. Well, obviously I didn’t see you because you were behind me but I mean when I turned around I didn’t..  I’m really sorry.  I just..” 

The more Castiel talks, the more embarrassed he gets until he finally groans and forces himself to shut up, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment that his outburst was witnessed.  Dr. Winchester laughs, not unkindly, and reaches out to steady them both with a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.  Castiel shivers at the touch and jerks away, suddenly remembering that he was busy stomping out in a huff.  He glares back over his shoulder at Mr. Henriksen one last time to find him glaring daggers in return, then tries to brush past the man blocking his path.

“Hey, wait, man.  Come on and let me buy you coffee and we’ll see what we can figure out about getting your Wednesday mornings off,” Dr. Winchester says sweetly as he turns to fall easily into step.  The last thing Castiel wants is to spend another second with the guy, but if there’s a chance his schedule can be worked out, maybe it will be worth it.  “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Castiel,” he replies numbly as Dean leads him down the hallway and out of the building.

“What kind of name is ‘Castiel’?” Dean asks, turning that green gaze on him as they step off the sidewalk and into the grass.  Castiel feels as though he’s being sized up, but he’s used to it.  He looks away from Dean to fix his gaze on a tree in the distance and licks his suddenly dry lips.

“I’m named after an angel.”  It’s the easiest explanation and his go-to answer.

“Hmm,” comes the soft reply and the men walk in silence across the wide expanse of grass that leads them off campus.  Castiel sneaks a glance at Dean, whose brow is knit in thought.  Finally he finishes the thought:  “Makes sense, I guess.”

Castiel stares at the grass in front of his feet as they continue walking in silence, certain he’s already failed somehow.

***

When they reach the little coffee shop with a big sign that reads “Harvelle’s” just off-campus, Dean opens the door for Castiel with a flourish and a boyishly shy smile.  He doesn’t want to be impressed with the chivalrous gesture, but he is.  He gives a small nod and enters without actually meeting Dean’s eyes for fear the blush will return to his cheeks.  Instead, he looks around to see neon and bent up metal signs that would be more at home in a bar than a coffee shop.

“Well, hello, stranger,” comes a woman’s voice, big and friendly.  Castiel looks toward the source to see a middle-aged woman with long brown hair and a smile to match her voice.  She’s a lovely woman with kind eyes and Castiel finds himself instantly drawn to her.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  ‘You never write, you never call,’” Dean replies from behind Castiel before he steps up beside him at the counter, ducking his head, and wearing a smile of his own.  “You know I never come to campus during the summer if I can avoid it, Ellen.”

“I’ve never met anyone as allergic to work as you are,” Ellen replies, then she winks at Dean and nods in Castiel’s direction.  “Who’s your friend?”

Castiel doesn’t know whether to feel scandalized or pleased at being labeled Dean’s ‘friend’ five minutes into their relationship, so he keeps his mouth shut and glances over at his companion to see how he will be introduced.  He makes a mental note of the way the black Metallica shirt hugs the breadth of Dean’s chest before he looks away again.

“Castiel.  Just rescued him from Victor over in Building One.”

“Named after the angel?” Ellen turns her wide smile on Castiel and winks at him, too, before declaring, “Any friend of Dean’s is a friend of ours.”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, unable to keep from returning her smile as he takes her proffered hand and shakes it.  He _knew_ he liked her.  “I usually have to explain that.  The uh..  the angel part, not the friend part, I meant.”

 Dean’s easy laughter sends a warm, pleased shiver down Castiel’s spine and he feels the heat of blush up the back of his neck again.  He reaches up to adjust his tie and looks down at the counter in front of him, caught in that familiar awkward place where he doesn’t know how to avoid making the situation worse.  He straightens his collar and clears his throat.

“Are you new to Klamath Falls?  I don’t remember seeing you around before, and I never forget a face,” Ellen says by way of rescue.  He looks up to see her eyes dancing with mirth and feels a sudden urge to bolt.  She’s obviously getting the wrong idea and he wants to correct her misconception, but he can’t do that without admitting it’s even in the realm of possibility and why did he ever accept this offer of coffee anyway?  Dean isn’t _that_ good looking.

 “I..  er.. yes.  I moved here last month.”

“Where’d you move here from?  I can’t place your accent.”

“Boston.  But I don’t think.. I don’t think my accent..”  He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, feeling sized up for the third time today and terrified he’s going to give the wrong answer again. 

“You a professor?  You look awfully young to be a professor but I _thought_ Dean learned his lesson about hanging out with students,” she tells him with a pointed look in Dean’s direction.  Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees the corners of Dean’s lips turn down into a fleeting frown.

“I’ll be teaching in the religious studies department.”   _Finally_ , Castiel thinks, _solid ground_.

“Oh!” Ellen says, her face lighting up with excitement as she leans forward with her elbows on the counter.  Another inscrutable look at Dean though she’s obviously talking to Castiel.  “I’d _love_ to talk to you about religion.  I have a million questions about -“

“Ellen,” Dean cuts her off, laughing again, though a bit nervously this time.  Castiel feels the same shiver through his body at the sound.  “Leave the poor man alone, he’s having a bad enough day!  You can talk shop next time.  We’re here to solve a problem, and we need coffee for that.”

“Party pooper,” Ellen chides, but she’s still smiling.  She ignores Dean to focus on Castiel and ask, “What can I get you, sweetie?”

“Just plain black coffee, please.”  He finds himself intrigued by the easy banter between Dean and Ellen, his nervousness easing little by little as she bustles around the small preparation area to make fresh coffee.  Dean asks for the same, then proceeds to dump enough sugar in it to make Castiel’s stomach ache by proxy.  As he follows Dean to a table in the back corner, his mind wanders to the thought of how sweet Dean’s lips would taste coated with all that sugar, but he doesn’t allow it to linger.

When Dean turns to face him, Castiel knows he must look guilty.  He reaches up to rub his eyes and hide his face for long enough to gather his composure and sits down opposite Dean, focusing on the little swirls of foam in his coffee.  Silence falls over the table, but before it can get awkward, Dean breaks it again.

“So, why do you need Wednesday mornings off, anyway?”

It’s not that it’s an unexpected question, but Castiel immediately feels defensive as he recalls Mr. Henriksen’s hostility.  He wraps his hands tight around the ceramic mug and keeps staring, unable to decide whether to answer the question or not.  It’s silly that he feels so self-conscious, he knows, but knowing that doesn’t help in the least.

“I..  have things to do,” he finally answers quietly and tries to shrug it off.

“Like 007 things or Dr. Evil things?”

Castiel looks up, perplexed and with no idea how to answer.  So, he stares, taking in the dusting of freckles across Dean’s nose and cheeks and the way his lips curve into a half smile, so plush and full and he tries not to think about how nice it must feel to kiss those lips.  He swallows reflexively and clears his throat, forcing himself to meet Dean’s eyes again.  Dean is leaned forward intently as he waits for an answer; his eyes drop to Castiel’s lips as he licks his own, then trail slowly back up again.

“I don’t..” Castiel croaks, his voice giving in the middle of the sentence so that he has to regroup and try again, never taking his eyes off Dean’s, “I don’t understand the question.”

When Dean chuckles softly and shakes his head, a hot flush blooms across Castiel’s cheeks again and he takes a gulp of the scalding coffee to cover the sigh that wants to slip past his lips. His eyes water from the heat of the coffee and it takes every bit of his willpower not to spit the bitter liquid right back out.

“I meant,” Dean says with exaggerated patience and a crooked grin, “what _kind_ of things?”

“I volunteer at the Faith Center.”

“I see.” Dean’s smile fades and he leans back in his chair, suddenly extremely interested in his coffee.

The abrupt change in his demeanor is even more confusing and Castiel wants to know what he did wrong, but he can’t bring himself to ask.  Instead, he studies his coffee, too.  He’s used to people being uncomfortable around him, but Dean seems more than uncomfortable and Castiel feels the need to explain further.  He doesn’t look up as he speaks.

“I teach a volunteer class to people who want to learn how religion has perverted its own message.  It’s..  I promised my father I would ‘give back’ to the religious community and.. I couldn’t think of a better way than to tell them the truth.”  He couldn’t say why he wants Dean to understand that he’s not one of _those_ religious types, but he does want it, desperately.

He takes another drink of his coffee then bites his lips together.  It’s a long moment before Dean looks up, but when he does, he’s got a faint smile again and Castiel is thrilledto see it.

 “So..”  Dean turns his cup around in his hand and tilts his head, “there’s _not_ a Bible up your ass?”

Castiel is shocked into laughter and Dean’s smile widens into a grin.  He winks and takes a drink of his coffee while Castiel searches for a witty answer but comes up with nothing.  He just smiles and shakes his head.

 “No.  I’m just a regular guy who happens to be really interested in how religion works in the world - or doesn’t.”

Dean nods slowly, obviously thinking it over.  Finally, he gives a short nod and his smile turns flirty.  Castiel tenses and leans back away from the table.

“Have dinner with me and I’ll fix your little problem for you.”

 “Absolutely not,” Castiel answers almost before the proposal is out of Dean’s mouth.  He keeps his voice low as he leans forward.  “I’m not like _that_.”

Dean’s eyes widen when they meet Castiel’s again, and his nostrils flare with a sharp breath. Castiel would give anything to be able to say yes because he’s never in his life wanted to be like _that_ more than he does at this very moment, but he can’t make himself do it.  He picks up his half-empty cup as he stands up and offers a tight smile.

“Thank you for the coffee, Dean.”  

Castiel turns and walks away, taking one last drink before he gets to the counter to return the cup.  Ellen gives him a quizzical look, but he studiously ignores it.  He smiles and assures her that any and all questions will be welcome upon his next visit, then he walks out the door without looking back.

“Wait, Castiel!” Dean’s voice makes him cringe.  It’s too loud and someone’s going to notice.  Castiel ducks his head and stares at the sidewalk, not slowing down.  When Dean catches his bare elbow, Castiel muses that he’s doing a terrible job at effective exits today.  He sighs and stops, but he doesn’t look up.

“Look, man.  I didn’t mean anything by it.  I mean..  I..  maybe I misunderstood, but I didn’t..”

Castiel looks up and meets his eyes, anger subsiding incrementally as he watches Dean flounder for solid ground.  He pulls away from Dean’s light grip and crosses his arms over his chest, staring and waiting to see what good explanation there could be for Dean propositioning a man he met less than an hour earlier.

Finally Dean shrugs.

“I didn’t realize that not having a Bible up your ass didn’t mean there isn’t a _stick_ up it.  Sorry.”

Castiel glowers.

“Not accepting a proposition halfway through my first cup of coffee with you means there’s a stick up my ass?” His voice is a hiss as he leans closer to Dean.  “Do you think I’m stupid?  I know what ‘dinner’ means to people like you.”

“People like me?!” Dean’s mouth drops open in surprise and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest to mirror Castiel.  “And just what kind of person am I, _your holiness_?”

“Indiscriminate.”  Castiel answers matter-of-factly, ignoring the jab as he pronounces each syllable carefully for maximum effect.

“You think I’m a slut?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“The hell you didn’t.”  Dean’s surprise gives way to a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  “Why does it matter to you if I _am_ a slut, Castiel?”

“I.. It doesn’t.”  Castiel backtracks quickly, then turns and starts walking away again, looking over his shoulder as he goes.  “Look.. thanks for the coffee, but I’ll figure it out myself.  I don’t _need_ your kind of help.”

The last thing he sees is Dean shaking his head incredulously as he mutters, “Son of a bitch.”

***

Tuesday morning when Castiel’s alarm clock goes off, he grunts and gropes for it, mashing buttons until the shrill chiming stops.  He sighs heavily and pulls his pillow over his head as Aslan curls up tight against his side under the sheet, purring them both back to sleep.  When he awakens three hours later, it’s to Aslan reaching under the pillow to pat his face.

_Meow.  Meow?  MEOW._

“I hear you, beastie.  Go get your own damned food,” he groans crossly, but the patting and purred meows continue until he gives in and crawls out of bed.  It’s already eight and his morning schedule is shot to hell, so he takes his time.  He sits in the middle of the kitchen floor with his bowl of cereal while Aslan crunches loudly at the food in his own bowl.  

The kitten is growing quickly, and his love for Castiel seems to know no bounds.  Between mouthfuls of food, he comes over to have his head scratched before he returns to his bowl for another bite.  By the time breakfast is finished and he’s taken a shower, Castiel feels almost ready to face the day.  It’s after ten when he pulls on a loose-fitting pair of jeans and his favorite gray t-shirt with a faded black peace sign on it.

The doorbell rattles him, as it always seems to since he never expects anyone, and he pads across the hardwood floor of the living room to answer it with a grumbled “I’m coming”.  It must be a package from Anna, though she didn’t tell him she was sending anything.  As he swings the door open, he sees Dean Winchester standing stiffly on the other side.

Dean holds out a folded piece of paper that Castiel takes and opens.  Inside is a revised class schedule with the requested Wednesday mornings off, the class to be covered by none other than Dr. Barnes, Chair of Religious Studies.  Castiel blinks and looks up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, refolding the paper and curling it into his palm.  “You didn’t have to.”

“I said I would, so I did.”  Dean nods, then shrugs.  “Victor’s my ex and Pamela’s a good friend of his.  I knew I could get them to change it, I..  I just..”

 Castiel tilts his head, watching as Dean shoves his now idle hands into his jeans pockets, looks down at the concrete beneath his feet, and trips over his words.  

“I just wanted to cook dinner for you it was never like you thought it was at all.”  The words finally come out, rapid-fire and without a pause for breath; Dean is still staring at the porch between their feet.  He doesn’t look up when he finishes, just shrugs again and starts to turn away.  Castiel feels a pang of guilt for rushing to judgment, but he can’t bring himself to stop Dean from walking away.

He walks down the cobbled path to the gravel driveway and for the first time Castiel notices the shiny black classic car sitting behind his Prius.  Dean climbs in and slams the door, sparking the engine to life with a deep rumble.  He backs slowly down the driveway without ever looking back at the house.

Castiel does his best thinking when he’s running, so he retreats back into the house and trades his jeans and bare feet for shorts and running shoes.  He takes off with no destination in mind, following every winding trail he can find until it disappears into the next.  He starts to slow as the temperature rises, focusing on turning his interactions with Dean over and over in his mind.  He needs to find a solution, but he’s not even sure what the problem is.

His ten-mile run ends with him panting and trembling from exhaustion on a bench in the park he fell in love with the day he got to Klamath Falls.  He pulls his drenched shirt off and wipes his face, then leans back to soak up the sun and watch the treetops where the late summer flood of birds are jockeying for the best branches and squawking at one another. 

By the time he’s able to walk home with his still-wet t-shirt draped across the back of his neck, the punishing run and meditation in the park have led him to the conclusion that it’s better this way.  If Dean had any idea how well and truly screwed up Castiel is, he would’ve run screaming the other way _without_ prompting.


	4. Chapter 4

Satisfied with having fulfilled his promise, Dean drives home from Castiel’s house a little too fast and spends the rest of the day replaying everything over in his head.  It wasn’t hard to get Victor to change the schedule, just as he knew it wouldn’t be.  Of all Dean’s exes, he’s the one voted least likely to murder Dean in his sleep.

He doesn’t get it.  If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s reading people.  Castiel was _definitely_ interested, until he wasn’t and, damn, that door slammed closed so fast it made Dean’s head spin.  ‘Indiscriminate’.  Like it fucking matters if he sleeps around.  What business is that of a guy he just met?  He sighs and takes another pull from his fourth beer of the night.

It’s stupid, probably.  Wishful thinking.  Like a gorgeous religious studies professor, who’s named after an _angel_ and has kissable lips and a penchant for overdressing on his days off, would ever be interested in someone like Dean.  Another sigh, another drink.  You can take the boy out of the country…

He finishes his beer and goes to bed, too grumpy even to watch the latest episode of _Dr. Sexy, MD_.  As he stares at the ceiling, Dean lets his mind drift to Castiel.  He sees the striking blue eyes, wide and curious, but always so guarded.  He closes his eyes and thinks about Castiel’s mouth, always wearing a half-pout except when he actually smiles.  He thinks about kissing those lips, claiming and sucking and nipping at them, whispering promises against them while Castiel moans.

Dean slides his hand down his stomach, muscles tensing under his fingers as they ghost over his skin.  He thinks about those lips parting to reveal a pink tongue and perfect white teeth in a dirty little smile.  He wraps his fingers around his cock as he watches the Castiel in his imagination licking his lips and opening his mouth wide.  A little groan slips out between Dean’s lips as he starts to stroke himself, slow and easy.

His mind substitutes the warm wetness of Castiel’s mouth for his own hand, a slow slide down and up as his fingers tangle in Castiel’s hair.  His hips jerk up as he imagines how good Castiel’s mouth would feel with those cocksucking lips and that always active tongue.  Dean pushes the sheet off his body and plants his feet flat against the bed for leverage, fucking up into his fist as his imagination turns from blow jobs to having Castiel on his knees with his ass in the air.

His breath comes in ragged little gasps as he thinks about the first sweet push into Castiel’s ass, the way the uptight religious professor would moan like a two-bit whore and shove back, his greedy ass begging for more even as his lips beg Dean to slow down.  Dean’s hips roll roughly, his hand sliding slick in his own precome, up and down and up and twisting until he’s grunting pleasure and thinking about how fucking tight Castiel’s ass would be around his cock while he begged with that dragged-over-shattered-glass voice.  Christ, he’s probably a virgin if he’s that scared of a dinner invite.

That thought is what sends Dean crashing over the edge.  He moans and twists his hips, and his cock jerks in his grip as the flash heat of orgasm burns in the pit of his stomach, hotter than the surface of the sun and sending all the air out of his lungs in a whoosh.  His body shudders convulsively from top to bottom as he moans and writhes against his silk sheets, basking in the sweat-damped drag on his skin. Castiel’s virgin ass clamped down tight around his cock is the only thing on his mind as pulse after pulse of hot come splash up his stomach.  

He squeezes the head of his cock mercilessly, trying to hold in the feeling that’s drawn up his balls and made his thighs tingle and quiver in this arched position until every muscle in his body burns and he can’t think clearly.  Finally, with trembling legs and gasped lungfuls of air, he forces his ass back down to the bed, still holding his cock as it softens.  When his breathing has subsided to at least semi-regular gasps, he finally pulls his hand away and smears the come into his skin, too tired and tipsy and satiated to get up and get a towel.  It takes no time at all before he drops off to sleep and when he does, he dreams of Castiel’s big blue eyes and shy smile.

***

The first thought on Dean’s mind when he wakes up Wednesday morning is that he _will_ have Castiel.  No ifs, ands, or buts.  His usual tactics - asking friends or family for help, showing off his awesome cooking skills, giving mind-blowing orgasms - aren’t going to work this time, so he has to plan a better course of action.  First stop, the flower shop, to set up an afternoon delivery of one white and one orange rose.  He’s almost certain Castiel will know what they mean.

It takes four stops to accomplish the next task on his list, but he finally emerges triumphantly from the last store with the final DVD he needs to complete the educational set of Connery’s first three Bond films and the first Austin Powers movie.  Another stop and he has acquired a gray ceramic coffee mug with a black peace sign on it and a blue gift bag with green dots.  

Once he’s got everything else, he stops by Harvelle’s for coffee.  Ellen meets him with a look of disapproval.  “What the hell happened?”

Dean feigns innocence, “What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I’m talking about?  Two days ago you came in here all smiles with a guy who seemed to like you, and not fifteen minutes later he went stomping out the door with you on his tail.  That’s gotta be a new record for you.”

“Don’t start with me, Ellen,” Dean answers defensively.  “He freaked out and took off when I asked him out to dinner.”

“Mm,” comes her reply, thin-lipped and skeptical.

“Seriously.  I said ‘have dinner with me, and I’ll help you’ and he - ”

“You said what?”

“Have dinner with me..” Dean blinks slowly as the words really hit him for the first time.  Fuck.  No wonder Castiel was so angry.  He pulls out his wallet and tosses money down on the counter.  “I need a cup of black coffee to go.  You can yell at me later.”

Coffee in hand, he returns to his ’67 Impala - his good luck charm if he has one - and sets off to properly apologize to Castiel.  The deep rumbling purr of the car’s engine settles his nerves the second he starts her up.  When he reaches the staff parking lot, he kills the car, and pulls out the notebook and pen he always keeps in the glove compartment.  He stares out the windshield, eyes fixed on nothing, and clears his mind.  Once he’s certain of what he wants to say, he puts pen to paper in his best handwriting:

_Cas,  
  
 _My cultural references are funnier if__   
_you understand them.  Since I plan_   
_to make more jokes about 007_   
_and Dr. Evil I thought you should_   
_have these study guides._   
  
_Dean_

 

He reads through the note a few times and, satisfied, he scrawls his phone number beneath his name before he stacks the DVDs and the note in the gift bag and exits the car with full hands.

***

Dean finds Castiel in his office, focused intently on a very large and very old looking book spread open in the middle of his mahogany desk.  Castiel doesn’t look up and Dean moves quietly to avoid disturbing him, taking in the tastefully tight t-shirt and “couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning” stubble.  It’s a beautiful picture.  He carefully places the new mug on the desk, a safe distance away from the book with the peace sign pointed at Castiel.  Dean sets the cup of coffee down beside it and takes a step back.

Castiel looks at the new additions to his desk for a moment before he looks up further.  His mouth sets into a thin line when his eyes meet Dean’s, but all Dean clearly registers are the long lashes that frame his ridiculously blue eyes.  The skin around Castiel’s eyes tightens, and his posture suddenly improves as he stares impassively at Dean.

“I’m here to apologize, Castiel.  Although I didn’t mean to imply I would only help you if you had dinner with me, I can see how it might have sounded that way and that was both stupid and entirely inappropriate.  So, I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

Dean sets the gift bag on the desk with the other things and before Castiel can hide the surprise on his face or give any more answer than a stammered “uhm..  uh”, Dean nods briskly and turns on his heel, leaving him to his confusion.  Castiel is still trying to get words out when Dean exits the office into the hallway, smiling at the effectiveness of his apology.

He retreats to his own office, pleased that the English department shares a building with the religious studies department.  Once there, he goes through the motions of tidying his desk, which mostly consists of shifting piles of paper and books from one side to the other.  His heart is pounding in his chest, and his hands quiver with fear and excitement.  It’s been too long since he felt the thrill of the chase so strongly.  Not since Victor.

With his desk more organized, Dean sits back and taps his fingers on his desk, then pulls out his laptop.  He learned Castiel’s last name from the class schedule, and he’s been burning with curiosity since.  He decides to indulge it since he has nothing better to do.  The first thing Dean learns is that Castiel’s father and brother Michael are prominent figures in Boston religious circles.  

The more he reads; the less he likes Castiel’s family.  There is ample information about his parents and his four siblings, but mentions of Castiel himself are few and far between.  A little digging turns up the facts that he graduated first in his undergraduate class from Yale, earned a Master of Divinity from Boston University, then a Th.D. from Harvard’s Divinity School, yet his father never brings him up in interviews and dismisses questions about him with answers like, “He has chosen his own path” and “I keep praying he’ll come to his senses, but those liberal schools got into his head”.

Dean feels a little guilty for sneaking around like this, but his curiosity wins out, as always.  Besides, he’s learning valuable information that’s vital to his mission of getting Castiel into his bed.  He clicks through link after link with family pictures and church newsletters that don’t include Castiel.  His parents and siblings pose for the camera; cookie cutter preppy types smiling their big phony smiles.  The only person in the pictures who ever looks less than pleased to be there is the woman Dean identifies as Anna.  She’s also the only one who seems to talk about Castiel.  Dean likes her instantly.

It surprises him when the day slips into early afternoon with no sign of Castiel.  He finally closes out his research, head swimming with information.  If there’s one thing Dean knows plenty about, it’s not living up to your father’s expectations.  His own father had been sorely disappointed that Dean had chosen college over going into “the family business” of getting drunk and fixing cars in someone else’s shop.  It wasn’t that Dean hadn’t enjoyed the work as a teenager, he just wanted more out of life than living paycheck to paycheck and an early, alcohol-soaked death.  Why can’t parents see that just because they bring you into this world, there’s nothing to say that you’re an extension of their failed hopes and dreams?

For the first time, he thinks he understands why Castiel is so uptight. If you take away the privileged upbringing, he realizes he and Castiel aren’t that different. It’s the best thing he’s learned all week.  Putting away his laptop, Dean tries to focus on lesson plans for his 20th Century American Poets class, but finds himself checking his phone as obsessively as a freshman with a hot date instead.  When the appointed time for flower delivery comes and goes with no sign of Castiel, Dean finds himself too restless to pretend he’s actually working anymore.

He gathers his things and shoves them into a beat up leather backpack, slinging it over his shoulder as he locks the door behind him.  When he passes Castiel’s office on his way back out of the building, the roses are on the corner of his neat desk in their crystal vase with the card still attached and it doesn’t appear that the gift bag has been moved at all, though the paper coffee cup is gone and the mug is in his hand.  Castiel is still poring over the big book, taking notes on a yellow notepad without looking as he sips from the mug.  He doesn’t look up and Dean doesn’t stop.

***

By lunchtime Friday, Dean is starting to give up hope of Castiel ever talking to him again.  He decides to go to Harvelle’s to get a caffeine infusion and whine about what a pathetic fifteen-year-old girl he’s turning into, but as he’s reaching to open the door, he sees Castiel sitting inside talking to Ellen.  While he stares, torn between betrayal and jealousy, Castiel glances up.  He stops talking as their eyes meet briefly, but he quickly drops his gaze back to Ellen and continues the conversation.

Dean, for once in his life agreeing with Falstaff’s assessment of discretion, changes course, and enters to the sandwich shop beside Harvelle’s instead, where he spends an hour picking at a roast beef sandwich and watching the door.  His heart thumps painfully against his breastbone again, and he can barely breathe as hope that Castiel will walk through the door wars with overwhelming dread of the same.  Both turn out to be unfounded.

With a sigh, Dean dumps the rest of his sandwich and chips into the trash and heads back to his office.  He chances a sidelong glance into the coffee shop as he passes and sees Ellen wiping down tables, with Castiel nowhere to be seen.  A black cloud settles more firmly over his mood, and he keeps walking, head down and hands shoved into the pockets of his loose jeans.  Back in Building Four, he passes Castiel’s office and he sees him leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head and staring blankly at the ceiling.

The view of his lithe body stretched like that with a short-sleeve dress shirt clinging in all the right places and his tie trailing off to the side almost makes Dean trip over his own feet.  He swallows hard and forces himself to look away and keep walking.  No need to get himself all worked up over the view since it’s stolen anyway.  He rounds the corner that will take him down the hallway his office is in with the realization that he has absolutely turned into a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush.

He unlocks his office door and pushes it open, bracing himself for another couple of hours work before he takes off for The Bluebird, where he has every intention of getting plastered and picking up the hottest guy he can.  He needs to blow off steam; or get blown, he doesn’t really care which.  He’s already sitting down when he sees the envelope on the floor in the doorway.

Someone must have slipped it under the door while he was gone.  Someone?  Castiel.  But, why would it be Castiel? Dean’s mouth goes dry as he stares at the neat maroon rectangle on the cream-colored carpet.  After an absurd argument with himself over whether he ever has to pick it up, he rolls his eyes and goes to retrieve it, closing the door before he returns to his chair.

His fingers tremble as he turns it over to find “DEAN WINCHESTER” written in the neatest block script he’s ever seen.  He wets his lips and puts it down on his desk for a moment while he gathers his courage.  Logically, he knows that staring at the envelope and wishing he knew what was inside is never going to get it opened; but no matter how much he tries to prepare himself for certain rejection, he can’t crush the tiny flame of hope that’s burning in the pit of his stomach.

When he finally picks it back up; he rips the flap open quickly, like ripping off a bandaid, and pulls out the folded pale green stationary inside.  He feels heat prickle on the back of his neck as he unfolds it carefully and begins to read the perfect script inside:

 

_Dean,_   
  
_I would liken my activities more to_   
_those of 007 than Dr. Evil. I like to_   
_believe I’m serving the greater_   
_good although the general public_   
_would quite likely not agree with_   
_the subterfuge I use to accomplish_   
_that good._   
  
_On the other hand, one million_   
_dollars could be quite helpful in_   
_making people understand my_   
_message. So, perhaps I am going_   
_about this the wrong way._   
  
_Thank you for the study guides_   
_and the mug. ~~I wish~~_   
  
_I should not have passed judgment_   
_on you so quickly or so harshly._   
_It was both stupid and entirely_   
_inappropriate. I apologize for_   
_being a jerk, too._   
  
  
_Castiel_

Dean’s grin is so wide it hurts.  His chest feels tight with the need to scream in relief, but he swallows it and grins some more, not caring if he looks like an idiot.  His thumping heart sends blood whooshing through his ears and he reads the note again and again, unable to force himself to put it back in the envelope just yet.  

After he’s read it at least ten times, memorized every word - and the way Castiel crosses his “t”s and dots his “i”s - he finally tucks the note back into its envelope, then tucks the envelope into a thick book for protection.  The dark cloud from lunch lifts and he feels, for the moment, like the world is made of puppies and rainbows.  It’s sickening, really, but he can’t bring himself to care.  All he can think is that by some miracle he didn’t fuck things up beyond repair.  

With no hope of accomplishing anything else for the day, Dean carefully pushes the book and his other things into his backpack.  He locks the door behind him as he goes to see whether Castiel is still in his office, his feet never touching the floor as he hurries down the empty halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this story, white roses mean humility and orange ones mean fascination. ([source](http://www.rkdn.org/roses/colors.asp))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a homophobic slur. 
> 
> _Contextually: It's a thought, in passing, not something someone says._

Castiel is on edge, his shirt clinging to his chest with a hint of nervous sweat and he can’t seem to force himself to take a deep enough breath to stop the feeling that he’s suffocating.  Half of him wants to stay and see whether Dean got the note slipped under his office door in the most cowardly manner possible; the other half wants to run home, lock the door and pretend he’s never heard the name ‘Dean Winchester’.  

He never expected an apology for the scene in the coffee shop and life would’ve been infinitely easier if he’d never gotten one.  With a sigh, he closes the book that takes up half his desk and leans back in his chair to stare at the ceiling for the third time in an hour.  Castiel draws a deep breath then another, trying to calm his nerves and slow his racing heart, and begins to count backward from 1000.  He’s made it to 893 when he hears a light rapping on his open door.

When he looks over, Dean is standing in the doorway with a leather backpack slung jauntily over one shoulder.  The same boyish smile that Castiel saw at Harvelle’s is spread across his face and the rapidness of each breath is obvious under his tight Led Zeppelin t-shirt.  Dean ducks his head shyly and Castiel’s heart leaps into his throat.  When Dean looks back up, his cheeks are the tiniest bit flushed and Castiel smiles tentatively.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets, his voice coming out far rougher and more breathless than expected.

“Hi,” Dean replies, then gestures toward the empty chair in front of Castiel’s desk.  “Do you mind?” 

Castiel looks at the chair and then back at Dean. He shakes his head, “No.  Please come in.”

Dean takes a seat and drops his backpack beside the chair, though he looks for all the world like he’s going to bounce back to his feet at any second.  When their eyes finally meet, Castiel’s breath catches and the overwhelming feeling of suffocation settles in his chest again.  He shakes himself out of it after a long moment and clears his throat, looking down at his desk to shift a stack of papers from one corner to another.  Dean still doesn’t speak, but Castiel can feel the weight of his gaze.

“I assume you’re here because you found my note,” Castiel begins, studying a pale scratch in the mahogany surface of his desk.  He pauses to collect his scattered thoughts, touching the long mark.  He’d planned everything he wanted to say, but somehow having to say it _to_ Dean is much harder.  When he finally looks up, Dean’s lower lip is caught between his teeth and he’s staring like Castiel is some sort of mythological creature he’s heard rumors of but never thought he’d see with his own eyes.  “I apologize for taking so long.  It’s..”

Dean leans forward, catching Castiel’s eye and offering an easy smile that is far more disarming than it should be.  “We sort of got our wires crossed Monday.  Bygones.”

Castiel nods quietly and looks back down at the desk, tracing his fingertip up and down the scratch.  It isn’t that he feels his first impression of Dean as a player was _wrong_.  He just realized a little too late that maybe that wasn’t _all_ he was.  The apology had been written last night after he finished watching the last of the movies, but he’d never intended to actually give the note to Dean until Ellen talked him into it at lunch.

“Listen,” he says, looking back up to meet Dean’s eyes.  He tries to keep his voice steady, but he can feel the quiver in it.  “I don’t want you to get the..  the wrong idea.  What I said at the coffee shop was true.  I’m _not_..”

“Easy?”  Dean finishes for him.

“Available.”

Dean’s sharp breath is audible.  His smile falters as he nods, head bobbing as though lost in thought.  He looks down at the hands clasped in his lap.  The tan of his skin against the pale blue of his jeans is mesmerizing, but Castiel refuses to let himself dwell on the distraction.  He watches Dean carefully, takes in the suddenly guarded slump of his broad shoulders and the way he licks his lips as he thinks.  He finally looks up again, and the softness in his eyes makes Castiel’s stomach flutter nervously.

“All right,” he says quietly.

“All right?” Castiel has no idea what else to say.  He’s uncertain whether to be furious that it’s something Dean thinks needs his approval to begin with or relieved that the approval was given so easily.

“Yeah, all right.”  Dean tilts his head and smiles again, spreading his hands in front of him.  “I _am_ easy.”

Castiel grimaces, but Dean laughs and shrugs it off, his former playful demeanor slipping back into place and hiding any trace of the disappointment that was there a moment ago.  He slides to the edge of his chair and crosses his arms on the edge of Castiel’s desk.  “I would still like to cook you dinner.”

“Dean..”

“No bullshit and no pressure, Cas.”  Dean looks so sincere with his wide gold-flecked green eyes and sweet smile that Castiel feels his resolve crumbling, replaced by a warm glow in the middle of his chest and a familiar heat on his cheeks.  “I’ll grill burgers, you bring beer and we’ll celebrate your plans for world domination.”

Castiel laughs in spite of himself and gives a slow nod of agreement as he ignores the voice in the back of his head that whispers Dean is no different from the others and this is a terrible idea.  

“That doesn’t sound _too_ bad.”

“Dinner at seven, then.”  Dean winks and grabs Castiel’s wrist and a sharpie off his desk.  Before Castiel can pull away, Dean has already jotted an address on his palm and released him.  He tosses the sharpie back onto the desk with a clatter and stands up, grinning as he hoists the beat up leather backpack onto his shoulder.  With the sudden rush of blood to Castiel’s groin, he barely hears Dean’s parting words.  “Don’t forget the beer.”

Dean makes his way into the hallway, leaving Castiel to try to catch his breath as he stares at the writing on his hand and rubs his wrist.  He briefly considers the merits of a minor existential crisis before dinner before he closes his eyes and resumes his backward counting from where he left off, waiting patiently for his body to cooperate so he can go home and get ready for dinner.

***

Aslan greets Castiel at the door with an inquisitive meow, reaching up to pat his thigh and try to get his attention as he hangs his messenger bag on the hook in the entryway.  Castiel reaches down to return the greeting and Aslan jumps into his arms, purring and rubbing the top of his head against Castiel’s scruffy chin.  He chuckles and stands up, cradling the squirming black kitten to his chest.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs, stroking down Aslan’s back.  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat dinner alone tonight.  I’m going out.”

_Mreow._

“I know.”  He squeezes Aslan and scratches under his chin, taking comfort in the kitten’s deep, rumbly purr.  “I couldn’t say no, though.  It’s that Dean guy I told you about.  He’s very charming.”

Castiel frowns and continues to scratch Aslan’s chin and neck.  It isn’t as though he’s never encountered a guy like Dean before.  He’s encountered plenty of them and, without exception, he has wished he never met them in the end.  While gay might not be the worst thing a person can be _outs_ ide theology programs run by conservative old men, inside them it’s damned close.  ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ is the unspoken rule. His chosen field, in addition to his father’s prominence in the Methodist Church, has long since trapped him in this strange, not-entirely-dark closet of his own making.

“But nothing’s going to happen, Aslan.”   The kitten bumps his head against Castiel’s chin and meows at the reassurance.  “I won’t let it.” 

After a few more guilty scratches, Castiel returns Aslan to the floor and kicks off his shoes.  He checks his watch while the kitten threads between his calves, still purring.  Four o’clock and all’s well.  At the very least, it’s not a complete disaster yet.  He’s relieved he has time to call Anna.  As always, she answers on the first ring with a big “Hello!”.

“Hey, sis.  You got a minute?”

“You know I always have a minute for you, Castiel.”  He smiles at the truthfulness of it.  Anna is the only one in his family who always makes time for him.  “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up.”  He flops down sideways in his recliner with his legs dangling over the side, feeling slightly more composed just hearing a friendly voice.  Aslan takes the opportunity to jump onto his stomach in search of more attention, so Castiel scratches his back absently.  “I just wanted to say hi, I guess.  So, hi.”

“You sound..  upset.  Is something wrong?”

_No, I just wanted to say hi.  Oh, and could we put the whole ‘Castiel’s a fag but we don’t talk about that’ thing aside for five minutes so I can ask for some advice,_ he thinks.

“It’s been a stressful day,” he answers.  “Classes start on Monday and although I’m prepared, I’m not sure I’m _ready_.  And I was invited at the last minute to another professor’s cookout tonight, so I have to go be social.”  It’s close enough to the truth, he decides.  He sighs as Aslan rolls over onto his back to have his belly scratched.

“You could always show up and say hello to a couple of people and leave.  Then, nobody can complain that you didn’t go!” Anna laughs, pleased with her own deviousness.  “And you are _never_ ‘ready’ for change, but I know you’ll be great on Monday anyway.”

 “Yeah, that’s probably what I’ll do - make an appearance and come back home.”  He tries to sound as delighted she does, but falls flat.  A burger and a beer with a guy who makes his heart flutter sounds like a fantastic evening and Castiel _wants_ to have dinner with Dean, but he doesn’t want to regret it.  He looks down at Aslan’s slow-blinking eyes as he rubs the kitten’s stomach.  “I’m looking forward to the start of classes, just a little nervous.  It’s been a stressful day.”

 “You already said that,” Anna tells him gently and Castiel sits up straighter to pay attention.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 “Yeah,” he answers with a sigh.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  But, hey, I should probably get going.  I’ve got a few things to do before I have to go.  I just wanted to..  you know, say hi.”

 Anna’s laugh is one of Castiel’s favorite sounds, and he smiles when he hears it.

 “You already said that, too, nerd,” she teases.  “Just remember you don’t have to stay.  You can leave whenever you’ve had enough, you know?  Don’t make yourself miserable to make someone else happy.”

 Castiel squeezes his eyes closed against the threatening sting of tears and nods his head.

 “I won’t,” he lies, uneasy with how smoothly it rolls off his tongue.

 “Promise?”

 “Yeah, I promise.”

 “Take care of yourself, Castiel.  I love you.”

 “I love you, too, Anna.”

 He hangs up, feeling somehow infinitely better _and_ infinitely worse than when he called.  Four-fifteen and all’s gone to hell.  Aslan bats at his face to remind him there’s a cat on his chest.  Castiel chuckles and looks down as he scratches the kitten’s side.   He studiously avoids comparing the shade of green in those trusting eyes to the shade of Dean’s.

***

 After depositing Aslan on the kitchen floor with a bowl of fresh food, Castiel heads to the bathroom and goes through his usual pre-shower routine of studying his face in the mirror.  He rubs tentatively at his scruff, trying to decide if he should shave before he goes to dinner, and pokes at a strand of hair that keeps falling across his forehead.  At least he doesn’t look as tired today as he did yesterday.  He decides against shaving and leans in to turn on the shower to let the water warm.

 He unties the knot in his tie and pulls it off, hanging it carefully on the big brass doorknob.  His mind wanders as he unbuttons the shirt that still clings to his torso with the remnants of his earlier nervous sweat.  He wonders idly whether Dean likes the way he dresses.  He’s seen the appreciative glances; of course, but that doesn’t mean Dean likes his sense of style.  Castiel laughs and shakes his head at himself as he strips out of the shirt and drops it on the floor then unbuckles his belt.

 As he unbuttons and unzips his jeans, he thinks about Dean’s hands clasped in his lap.  They’re big, strong looking hands and Castiel wonders whether his touch is gentle or rough.  He stifles a groan at the thought of the three times Dean has touched him.  The first touch on his shoulder, the light grasp on his elbow, the overly familiar way Dean held his wrist while he wrote his address.  Castiel pushes his jeans and underwear off his hips and to the floor and leans down to remove his socks.  A shiver runs up his spine as he considers what Dean’s hands on his waist would feel like, putting his own there just to see.

By the time he enters the shower, his cock is painfully hard.  He turns his back to the spray, savoring the way it stings.  When his body adjusts, he leans back slowly and lets the water run over his shoulder and down his chest and stomach as he reaches for the soap.  He’d planned on taking the edge off before he goes to Dean’s house anyway, he didn’t think it would be _fun._   

With a handful of soap, he wraps his fingers loosely around the base of his cock, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.  He strokes slowly to the tip, thinking about Dean’s hands on his waist, Dean’s lips on his neck.  A soft moan slips past his lips as he leans further into the hot spray and starts to stroke a little more quickly, fingers sliding easily through soap.  Castiel thinks about Dean’s fingers trailing up his sides, palms molded to the curve of his ribs as his teeth close possessively on the skin of Castiel’s throat, pinching.

The thought of Dean’s sweet laugh, the constellation of freckles across his nose, and green, green eyes almost too close to focus spurs Castiel on as he gasps and leans back against the wall to steady his quivering legs.  His fist is loose, jerking root to tip to root, hips pushing forward into the touch; the image in his mind of his back against a wall and Dean’s leg pressed between his thighs for friction as their lips come together in a filthy, wide-jaw, biting kiss.

Castiel gasps, his whole body under assault from the tickling run of water on his chest, the cold tile on his back, the stifling steam in the air.  His fingers grip tightly, twist, loosen again as he strokes quickly and then slows once more.  His heart thunders when he thinks about Dean’s palms spreading his ass cheeks wide, the head of Dean’s cock pressed against his tight hole. Castiel reaches down with his free hand to grab roughly at his balls and squeeze as he jerks frantically at his cock.  He wishes for the burn of Dean sliding into his ass and pushing steadily until he’s buried, fingers gripping Castiel’s hips bruising tight.

His knees threaten to buckle at the thought of being face down in Dean’s bed, wrists pinned by strong hands at the small of his back, begging for more while Dean moans nonsense and fucks him to within an inch of his life.  Orgasm wraps around the base of Castiel’s spine like a noose, suddenly tight and ripping through every nerve.  It leaves him moaning and shuddering against the wall, cock jerking in his hand.  He thinks about the aftermath, safe in Dean’s arms with whispers of “you were so good” and “I’m so proud of you” and it feels as though his body is turning inside out, one atom at a time. 

Thick come mixes with soap and water, making his cock almost too slippery to hold.  He cries out and slides down a little as he jerks himself through with the thrilling thought of being possessed in every possible way by Dean Winchester.  When there’s nothing left, he palms his cock hard against his stomach, trying to hold onto the pins-and-needles feeling that’s racing over his skin from the myriad sensations. Castiel forces a deep breath before he shoves his head under the spray and shakes it to try to clear away the gray haze that has settled at the base of his skull.  

When he pulls his head out of the water, he’s still panting and moaning softly, trying to compose himself to stand on unsteady legs and turn his face to the cooling water.  He leans his head back and takes another deep, steadying breath, holding it until he sees stars before he lets it out.  With the next breath, he can _almost_ think again and he slowly turns his lust-addled mind to washing himself thoroughly.  The water is ice-cold before he makes it out of the shower, but he doesn’t mind, holding out hope that the effects of a blinding orgasm and frigid water will get him through the evening.

He turns off the water and climbs out, shivering as he reaches for a towel.  Even as he wraps it around his slim hips, he realizes that he’s _still_ caught up in the thought of the three times Dean has touched him.  After changing his clothes seven times, he settles on faded relaxed fit jeans that hug his hips and a pale blue ringer tee that sets off his eyes.  He stands in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and studies himself critically.  After cataloguing his imperfections, he sighs and pronounces himself good enough.  The fact that nothing’s going to happen tonight doesn’t stop him from wanting to impress Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel pulls up in front of Dean’s two-story brick home at 6:55 with a six-pack of beer and serious doubts about whether this is a good idea.  He checks his hair in the rearview mirror and takes a calming breath.  After a quick pep talk, he grabs the beer and climbs out of his baby blue Prius to head up the sidewalk.  He’s halfway there when Dean steps out through a gate at the side of the house.

“Hey, Cas,” he calls with a smile.  “Over here.”

Castiel changes course to meet Dean, his stomach fluttering nervously and his mouth going dry at the view.  Dean’s dark jeans accentuate his bowed legs, and his red Van Halen shirt clings like a second skin.  Somehow the vivid colors against his tanned skin make him appear even more Greek God-like.

“Hello, Dean.”  He answers, returning Dean’s smile with a shaky one of his own.  “I, uh..  I like your shirt.”

“‘Course you do.”  Dean gives an exaggerated wink, taking the beer from Castiel and mercifully turning to lead him through the gate.  “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

“Neither was I,” Castiel admits before he can stop himself.  

“And here you are.”  Dean’s laughter fills the air as he looks back over his shoulder, leading the way onto an impressive stone patio with an intimidating looking grill.  Castiel takes in the comfortable looking chairs and the sprawling backyard beyond with its strategically placed trees, trellises with flowering vines over benches, and a small circular duckpond.  He watches curiously as Dean swaggers through the open patio door, surprised again by just how wrong his first impression seems to have been.

He’s looking into the yard again, at a trellis that’s covered in brilliant blue flowers, when he hears the clearing of Dean’s throat.  When Castiel looks toward the sound, Dean is leaned out of the house, hanging onto the door frame, grinning.  “You comin’ in on your own or do I need to drag you?”

Castiel’s cheeks flush hot, and he nods, hurrying across the patio to the door.  The unmistakable scent of burning wood gets stronger as he passes the grill and suddenly, he’s famished.  When he enters the kitchen, Dean hands him an already open beer and he murmurs thanks and takes a swallow of the bitter liquid.

Dean refuses Castiel’s offer to help with vegetable slicing or anything else, instead parking his guest on a high stool at the breakfast bar with an order to keep him company while he works.  Castiel watches as Dean moves around the room with precision, gathering the things he needs and dumping them all on the counter between them.  The kitchen is well-stocked and utilitarian, but there’s nothing to show it’s _Dean’s_ kitchen.

“Talk to me,” Dean says with a smile as he sets up his cutting board and starts to slice a tomato.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Castiel says after a moment’s thought.  “None of it.”

Dean laughs again and then shrugs.  There’s a teasing lilt in his voice.  “You didn’t think I was properly domesticated, you mean?”

“No!”  Castiel feels the color drain out of his face and begins to stammer what he hopes will someday turn into an apology, but Dean just chuckles and waves his knife in the air as though to dismiss it.  Castiel feels compelled to explain anyway.  “I just..  This isn’t the kind of place I’d picture your being happy in.  It’s so..  so..  cookie-cutter.”

“You picture me being happy?” Dean’s grin turns flirty in an instant and Castiel gives up on conversation and drinks his beer instead.  When Dean looks up half a minute later, his face softens.  “You worry too much.”

“I do,” Castiel agrees, not missing the little grin that Dean tries to hide.  He searches for something to say that can’t be taken out of context, but can’t find anything.  Dean finishes cutting the tomato, takes a long drink of his beer, and then puts the bottle back down, repeating the motion to make a pattern of condensation circles on the black countertop.

“This is my ‘light at the end of the tunnel’.  The promise of a nice life and believing my kid brother was gonna be a lawyer some day.”

“Is your brother a lawyer?”

“Hell yeah!” Dean looks up and grins, his eyes sparkling.  “Sammy’s kickin’ ass all over Texas now.  The little Kansas giant who could.”

Castiel laughs at the description and takes another drink, the cold brew starting to make his head feel a little lighter on his shoulders.  “What’s it like to find the light at the end of the tunnel?”

Dean shrugs and ducks behind the refrigerator door to retrieve another beer, peering over to ask if Castiel needs one.  He nods and swallows the last of the one he has before the new one is set before him.

“Tell me about the class you teach at the Faith Center,” Dean says as he turns his attention to cutting an onion.  Castiel watches quietly as he tries to decide how best to approach the topic since Dean always seems to clam up at the mention of religion.

“Well,” he begins uncertainly, “religion has been twisting and perverting the Bible’s words to its own ends for centuries.  Almost since the beginning, really.  There are things the Bible says unequivocally.  Like, ‘Love one another’ and, to paraphrase, ‘let he among you who is without sin cast the first stone’.  There are other things the Bible _doesn’t_ say at all.  Like, ‘homosexuality is a one way ticket to hell.”   

Dean stops cutting and looks up, waiting for Castiel to continue.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life studying the Bible and other Christian texts.  I’ve..”  He pauses to gather his thoughts and take a swallow of icy beer, then another.  He rolls the bottle’s neck between his fingers and watches the label spin.  “I’ve concluded that if you stay within the context of the sacred texts, God doesn’t care who’s having sex with whom as long as they’re not..”

“..indiscriminate?”  The tone is gentle, but it stings Castiel like a slap.  He meets Dean’s eyes for the first time and shakes his head.

“As long as they’re not hurting people who don’t deserve to be hurt.”

Castiel lets out a slow breath and retreats into his thoughts, thankful for the pleasant, low buzz of the beer.  Dean is silent, leaving the only sound in the room the steady drag of the knife, now through lettuce.  As Dean makes one efficient cut after another, Castiel watches the progress, feeling oddly soothed by his near-admission.  The quiet is comfortable.  Castiel drinks his beer and looks around, his gaze drawn through the wide doorway to the neat formal dining room and den beyond.  Dean’s voice catches him off guard.

“So, what do you tell them?  In your class.”  When Castiel looks back, Dean is watching him intently.

“I tell them to read the Bible for themselves rather than relying on others to tell them what it says, and to interpret it with love and compassion instead of trusting anyone else to tell them what it means.”  He shrugs and offers a smile.  “I’m not God and I’m certainly not going to put words in his mouth.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his crooked smile as he studies Castiel.  “Too bad more people aren’t that reasonable.”

When they venture back outside, Dean refuses help again, so Castiel takes a seat in one of the comfortable chairs and watches him expertly grill the burgers.  The addition of alcohol loosens Castiel’s tongue and dampens his self-consciousness, allowing conversation to flow more freely.  They discuss the upcoming semester and their hometowns; Dean brags about Sam and Castiel tells him about Anna as they bask in the growing orange light of sunset.

When Dean’s back is to Castiel, he studies the shift of muscles under the tight red shirt and the way the hairs stand up on the back of Dean’s neck.  Three beers in, his mind drifts back to the shower and the desire to feel Dean’s hands on his body.  Castiel shivers and slides down in his chair, toying with his empty bottle as he watches sweat bead at Dean’s nape in the fading heat of the evening.  He licks his lips, feeling the all-too-familiar ache of his cock stirring.

Dean is oblivious, chattering tipsily about a winter festival that’s ‘the only fun to be had around here between October and April, I swear’.  Castiel shifts and tries to focus on what Dean’s saying, but the country boy drawl starting to slip through is maddening.  He forces himself to concentrate, finding victory in registering half of the words that reach his ears.  When the burgers are ready, Dean retrieves two more beers from his own stash in the fridge and they eat in companionable near-silence.  

Dean blushes when Castiel compliments both the burger and his hospitality, then brings out two big slices of apple pie for dessert.  The more empty bottles line the glass-topped table, the more animated the conversation becomes.  By the time Dean has to flip on the outside lights lest they lose one another in the darkness, Castiel’s head is swimming with all the alcohol he’s imbibed.  In a lull in conversation Dean excuses himself to take the dishes in the house.

While he’s gone, Castiel pushes to his feet a little unsteadily and kicks his sandals off before he walks carefully off the patio and into the soft grass.  It’s warm and damp beneath his feet as he makes his way slowly toward the arched trellis that caught his interest when he arrived.  There are strings of clear lights threaded through the vines to illuminate the flowers.  The pleasantly earthy smell of late summer evening fills Castiel’s head as he nears his destination and he’s acutely aware of the chirp of crickets and random songs of birds up past their bedtimes.  

Castiel stops with a little sway as he digs his toes into the thick grass and reaches out to lift one of the deep blue flower clusters with a careful fingertip.  He tilts his head, studying the vibrant color in the soft light.  He hasn’t seen a flower like it before, and the sweet smell wafting up is heavenly.

  “Blue Moon Wisteria.”  Dean’s voice is thick as he steps up beside Castiel, their shoulders brushing.  “They were my mom’s favorite flower.”

“They’re gorgeous,” Castiel replies, his voice an alien rumble to his own ears.  A hush settles like a cloak on his shoulders, warm and comfortable as Dean reaches up to touch the same cluster of flowers.  When his fingers brush Castiel’s, there’s a quickly indrawn breath that could have come from either of them and Castiel is suddenly more aware of Dean’s proximity than he can stand.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply of woodsmoke and wisteria and sweat and damp earth and a scent that is uniquely Dean.  When he opens his eyes, Dean is there, almost too close for Castiel to focus on his glass-green eyes.  He feels Dean’s breath on his lips, tastes the beer sour and cinnamon apple sweet. Dean’s long lashes flutter before his eyes widen and Castiel finds himself lost in the chaotic constellation of freckles splashed across tanned skin and barely visible, ignoring the whispered voice of worry that threads through his mind, disapproving.

“I’d like to kiss you, Cas.”  Dean’s hoarse voice is barely audible.

“Would you?” Castiel answers equally softly.

“Yeah.”

“All right.”

Castiel watches until he can’t focus, then lets his eyes drift slowly closed.  Dean’s breath whooshes across his lips just ahead of the soft press of lips.  It’s a sweet kiss, chaste and undemanding.  Castiel pulls away then returns the kiss, slow and lazy and light.  They take turns, a gentle press and release, bodies seeking one another instinctively.  Dean’s fingers brush Castiel’s jaw, slide up to hold him steady with the first tentative tease of tongue and Castiel feels as though he will fly apart from the pleasure.

A soft sound rumbles in his throat as he gives in to the growing insistence of Dean’s kiss and then Dean’s other hand is on his hip, fingers curling over denim, claiming.  Castiel can taste the beer and the pie and _Dean_ ; a spark of want shudders down his spine as their tongues slide together.  Dean moans softly and pulls back, ragged breath matching Castiel’s until they both push forward almost simultaneously to taste one another all over again.  Castiel’s hands come to rest on Dean’s bicep and opposite hip, wrapped against defined muscles and fabric.

Warm fingers slide under the hem of Castiel’s shirt, brushing against his bare waist and drawing a gasp of pleasure as Dean traces the line of Castiel’s teeth and teases the roof of his mouth.  His kiss turns demanding as he presses forward with nips and licks, palm pressed to the side of Castiel’s neck even as his other thumb splays across Castiel’s stomach.  Castiel kisses back breathlessly, then tries to pull away to get oxygen to his burning lungs with no success.  They share a breath back and forth with tiny moans and growls and rumbles until Castiel’s cock is rock hard and the worried whisper has risen to a din.

Dean shifts his weight without warning, knocking Castiel off balance as he pushes his thigh unexpectedly between Castiel’s, grinding up against his already aching hardness.  Castiel jerks away with the loss of balance, breaking the kiss and backing, wide-eyed and panting into the trellis that somehow ended up behind him.  Panic grips his spine like ice and he lurches sideways to put more space between himself and Dean.

He reaches up to wipe away saliva, letting his fingertips linger over his tingling lips as he stares at Dean’s glassy-eyed confusion.  Castiel’s stomach pitches and sours as he takes another step backward for every step Dean takes forward, the frantic need to get away growing as he finds himself in full retreat.  Dean stops suddenly and drops his hands to his sides.

“I have to go,” Castiel whispers.  “I’m sorry.  I have to..” 

“You can’t drive,” Dean replies gently, taking a step back, confusion still clouding his face.

“I can’t stay.”

“All right.”  Dean drops to sit in the grass, looking up at Castiel.  “Let me call you a cab.  I’ll sit here until it comes.”

Castiel searches Dean’s face in the dim light from the patio and the trellises and feels relieved sweat prickle across his shoulders, itchy and hot.  He forces himself to take a deep breath, tries to clear his head of beer and desire so that he can think clearly.  He shakes his head and reaches up to touch his lips again.

“You don’t have to,” Castiel answers finally, guilt settling in heavily as panic ebbs away.

“I want to.”

The call made; they wait in uneasy quiet with bursts of words.  Dean returns to smalltalk and Castiel says little in return.  His throat aches with swallowed tears, and Dean’s calm patter only makes him feel worse.  True to his word, Dean is still sitting in the grass when the taxi arrives.

Aslan greets Castiel at the door with an anxious meow, then crowds his every move until he falls into bed fully clothed.  He turns onto his side and the kitten curls against his chest; purring so hard he shakes as he rubs against his owner.  Castiel wraps his arms around Aslan and gives up fighting, clinging to the purring kitten as gut-wrenching sobs wrack his body until he drops into fitful sleep with Dean’s taste still on his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to avoid long conversations, but sometimes they're necessary.

Dean is still in his backyard long after Castiel has fled, lying on his back to stare up at the softly lit blue flowers.  He thinks he should probably be angry, but instead, he’s bewildered.  He’s never met someone who gave off so many mixed signals.  Not someone who seemed even remotely worth the effort, at least.  There’s _something_ in Cas, though.  Something about him is different.  Dean closes his eyes and reaches up to rub them before he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration and lets his fingers trail across his kiss-chapped lips.

Everything was going fine until..  until..  he doesn’t have a clue.  He has no idea what he did wrong, only that _something_ he did brought a really good time and what seemed like can’t-miss-sex crashing down.  Typical.  He sighs and rubs his eyes again, deciding it’s too late to try to figure out someone else’s problems.  After a few more minutes of fruitless thought, he drags himself up out of the grass in favor of his soft bed, almost sober and with the first hint of a hangover teasing through his skull.

*** 

Dean’s ringing phone wakes him much too early and he curses as he fumbles for it on the nightstand.  He doesn’t recognize the number and he’s about to drop it back onto the stand when some part of him realizes it could be Castiel.

“Hello?”  Silence meets his grumpy growl.  Fucking telemarketers.  He’s pulling the phone away from his ear when he hears Castiel’s voice.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“I..” Castiel starts, then clears his throat.  He sounds even worse than Dean feels.  “I thought I should call ahead to let you know I will be picking up my car soon.”

It’s formal, clipped, followed by more silence.  Dean flops over onto his back, studiously ignoring his erection as he rubs his face and tries to force coherence.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.”

“I apologize for waking you,” Castiel replies with excruciating politeness.  A half-second’s silence is followed by a beep to indicate the call has been disconnected.

Dean slams the phone down on the bed beside him and curses again at this icy shift in Castiel’s demeanor.  He presses the heel of his hand hard against his cock, briefly contemplating staying in bed and jerking off instead of getting up.   _No, fuck that_ , he thinks, _I’m gonna find out what that son of a bitch’s malfunction is._

He pushes up out of bed with a grunt of annoyance.  There’s a dull throb behind Dean’s eyes as he slips on shorts and a t-shirt and goes to sit on his front porch and wait for Castiel.  He doesn’t have long to wait before a bright yellow cab stops just behind Castiel’s car and Castiel unfolds from the back seat, stopping to pay the driver.  When he sees Dean walking toward him, he ducks his head and goes straight for his car.

“Cas, wait,” Dean says. Castiel turns his back to Dean and hunches his shoulders, but he doesn’t open the car door, so Dean goes on civilly.  “Do you have a minute?”

“No, I should go.” Castiel replies quickly.  “I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Right.  I’m sure you do.  So much to do.  Terribly busy.  Can’t wait another second.  I’m late.  Very important date and all.”  Dean knows his tone is shitty, but he doesn’t care.  “Before you get to all that, I’d just like the answer to one question.”

Castiel stiffens and shakes his head.  Dean barely hears his reply.  “I doubt I have one.”

“I think you do since you seem to think you have _all_ the answers.”

“What is your fucking problem, man?” Castiel asks nastily as he spins around to face Dean.  His eyes are red-rimmed and he looks exhausted, a combination that fills Dean with self-righteous pleasure.

“What’s _your_ fuckin’ problem, _man_?”  Dean growls in return.

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he presses his lips into the familiar thin line as he stares at Dean and takes a slow, deep breath.  If looks could kill.  Dean crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to back down, and Castiel looks away first.  He glances up and down the quiet street, then his eyes flit nervously back to Dean.

“Do we have to do this here?”  The weariness in Castiel’s voice gives Dean a half-second pause for guilt; but he’s not about to let this go.

“No.”  Dean turns on his heel to walk toward the house, hearing Castiel’s sandals scraping on the sidewalk behind him.  He holds the door open, but Castiel sweeps carefully by without touching him and stops to stare at the entryway floor.  Dean shrugs, closes the door and heads for the kitchen.  It seems like neutral ground and he hopes coffee will ease the growing throb in his head.

Dean busies himself with starting a pot of coffee as Castiel takes a seat on one of the chairs at the breakfast bar.  But, only _after_ dragging it away from the other.  From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Castiel clasp his hands on the bar and stare at them pensively, as though awaiting sentencing.  Dean watches him, noting the quiet control he exerts over his breathing and every movement.

“What is your question, Dean?” Castiel asks finally as he studies a small cut on the back of his hand.

“What the hell happened last night?”  The fact that Castiel wants to cut to the chase comes as a relief.  Dean returns to stand opposite the bar and counter from Castiel, still watching.  Castiel swallows and nods his head, but still doesn’t look up.  He shrugs, barely and with one shoulder.

“I changed my mind.”

“Yeah, I _got_ that part right around when you nearly broke your neck trying to get away from me.”

Castiel’s body goes still, his chest no longer even moving with breaths under his thin gray t-shirt.  Dean’s attempt to provoke him goes unanswered.  Frustrated by the lack of response, Dean turns away again and grabs two mugs out of the cabinet.  He fills them, and returns to his post to find that Castiel still hasn’t moved.

“Look, man.. if you have a problem with being gay, I get it.  I -”

Castiel’s head jerks up into an inquisitive tilt, his blue eyes perplexed as they meet Dean’s.  “Why would you assume I have a ‘problem with being gay’?”

“I..  well, you..”  The rug yanked from under Dean’s feet, his conviction falters.  “It’s just..  I mean.  I mean, most guys who freak out when a dude..”

“It’s not that,” Castiel says stiffly.  He shrugs again and stares down into his still full coffee cup.  “I’ve had bad experiences.”

Dean takes a careful sip of his own coffee and nearly gags at the untempered bitterness.  He waits to see if Castiel is going to elaborate as he retrieves the sugar and dumps an unhealthy helping into his mug.  Castiel says nothing.  Dean takes a syrupy drink from his mug and decides to push his luck.

“I know you don’t owe me anything..”  Dean sees the subtle shift in Castiel’s posture to ramrod straight, notices he’s holding his breath again..  “..but, I wish you’d at least give me a chance.”

“I can’t,” Castiel answers simply as he pushes his coffee away.  All Dean can do is watch, rendered temporarily wordless by the finality of the statement.  “I’ve known enough people like you to know - ”

“S _top_ saying ‘people like you’, goddammit!”  Dean leans forward, anger surging again like adrenaline through his veins, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  He slams his palms to the countertop as he gives Castiel an icy stare.  “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me.  You have no idea what _type_ of person I am.  If you want to pretend you’re better than I am for whatever fucked up reasons you’ve made up, have at it, but _don’t_ put your bullshit issues off on me and act like _I_ am in the wrong.”

Castiel leans back, away from the tirade; his eyes comically wide and his mouth half-open.  Dean silently dares him to say _anything_ in his own defense.  Castiel blinks, slow and owlish, and licks his lips before he slides off the chair.

“I.. I should go,” he says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.  “You _should_.”

*** 

Monday morning, Dean has to force himself out of bed.  He wonders why he had Victor change Castiel’s schedule and not his own.  Everyone knows he hates classes that start at eight o’clock.  That’s probably why they give them to him, he decides bitterly. His head is pounding again and the taste of whiskey is sour in his mouth and his stomach as he climbs into the shower to try to wash away evidence of his weekend bender.  

He makes it to the campus with three minutes to spare and hurries down the hallway toward his office to drop his backpack before his class starts.  He glances toward Castiel’s half-closed office door - strictly out of habit, he tells himself - to see him hunched over a book and looking utterly miserable.  Castiel glances up at the sound of someone in the hallway, but looks away quickly when he sees it’s Dean.

Dean makes it into his class only two minutes late and with the worst hangover he’s had in years.  He spends class time growling at students, taking a certain sadistic pleasure in seeing their worried glances and nervous shuffling of papers; between classes, he dry heaves and wishes he _hadn’t_ spent the whole weekend drinking Jack Daniels.  Even the 20 th Century American Poets lecture, always his favorite, brings no joy.  By the time he’s finished for the day, all he can think about is curling up in bed to die.

His house feels bigger and emptier than usual, the tastefully off-white walls closing in.  A little hair of the dog is in order, he reasons as he opens his first beer.  By the time he’s ready to pass out on the couch watching some godawful reality show because he can’t be bothered with reaching for the remote, he’s halfway through another bottle of whiskey.  His phone rings and he grabs for it, heart pounding with the hope that it might be Castiel.

“‘Lo?”

“Hi, Dean.”  Sam’s voice makes Dean’s stomach clench uneasily.

“Hey, Sammy,” he slurs, sitting up straighter and trying to will himself to soberness.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“ No, I was just thinkin’ about goin’ to bed.  Calling it an early night.  You need somethin’?”

 “Do I need a reason to call?”  Dean can’t be sure whether the disapproval in Sam’s voice is real or imagined.  He rubs his eyes and sighs, sprawling out on the couch and settling in for the lecture he’s sure is coming.

“No.  ‘Course not.”

“I tried to call Saturday,” Sam tells him, a controlled neutrality to his tone. “And yesterday.  I was about ready to send out a search party.”

“Real busy last weekend.  Last minute preparations for the semester.  You know how it goes.”  Dean’s skin crawls as he talks.  There _were_  last minute preparations needed, even if he didn’t _do_ them.  He picks at a threadbare patch on his jeans and waits, unwilling to say more than he has to.

“Mm.”  It’s like a ticking clock has settled into Dean’s mind, counting down the seconds to disaster.  He’s about to say something when Sam says quietly, “You sound drunk.  Is everything okay?”

“No,” he replies truthfully before he can censor it.  He sighs and closes his eyes.  “Nothing is okay.” 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the whole mess is harder to explain than he thought it would be.  No, Sam, I haven’t known him for that long; no, Sam, I don’t know why I give a shit what he thinks.  Maybe it’s something in Castiel’s eyes that says there’s more to him than it seems or maybe it’s the happiness in Castiel’s smile in those rare moments when he lets his guard down.  Perhaps it’s nothing more than Dean _really_ wants to fuck him.  Regardless of what it is, Sam is a tough sell.  

His practical advice lines up with Dean’s instinctive response, “Find someone who’s less fucked up.”  By the end of the conversation, Dean finds himself defending Castiel to his brother.  Although he hasn’t solved  the problem of world peace, he feels oddly peaceful about Sam’s parting advice, “If you’re so sure he’s worth it, let him come to you.”

***

Dean falls into a familiar routine.  Work, drink, pass out.  The only thing missing from it are his once-frequent trips to The Bluebird to pick up one-night stands.  For what may be the first time in his life, Dean isn’t interested in random sex.  He avoids Castiel on campus as much as he can and as the days drag on, his anger turns to steely resolve.  When he can’t avoid Castiel, he offers a friendly smile, but he doesn’t speak.  Nearly three agonizing weeks later, his patience pays off.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a homophobic slur. _Contextually, it's a reference to something that happened in Castiel's past._

Three weeks to the day from his disastrous first date with Dean, Castiel still can’t shake it off.  When his thoughts turn to Dean, they careen wildly between the sweetness of his kiss and the harshness of his last words and Castiel isn’t sure which upsets him more.  Dean was right, of course.  Castiel’s issues aren’t his problem.  That knowledge doesn’t make Castiel feel even a little better.

Every day since the argument, he has run to the ends of his stamina, then forced himself to sit in quiet contemplation.  Over and over, he picks apart every word and gesture that has passed between himself and Dean.  He wants to find answers for Dean, good answers, but they’re elusive.  It’s times like this that Castiel wishes he’d spent more time making friends in his life.  Ellen seems thoughtful and compassionate and he considers talking to her, but she’s Dean’s friend.  

After spending three weeks ignoring Anna’s calls, he decides it’s time to talk to her.  A nervous sweat raises on his body, his heart pounds as he sprawls in his recliner.  Aslan jumps onto his chest, rubbing against his scruffy chin as he makes the call with trembling fingers.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”  Anna’s first words are colored with both relief and rebuke.  Castiel doesn’t have a good answer for her, either.

“I’m sorry,” he replies.

“Are you going to ignore the question?”  She asks after a pause.  “Is something wrong?”

Castiel scratches down Aslan’s back as he considers his next words carefully.  He hugs the purring kitten to his chest and closes his eyes, swallowing hard before he tells her, “I know you prefer to pretend that I’m not gay, but I am.  I need to talk to someone, Anna.  I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“I’m listening,” she answers softly after an excruciating ten second silence.

Through tears, he begins to unravel the story.  He starts with the current mess and when Anna responds with the same confusion Dean did to his meltdown, he spills everything.  The teenage boy who outed Castiel to the world by spray painting ‘faggot’ across the front of their suburban home, he admits, was the popular athlete he lost his virginity to and subsequently dumped for cheating on him.

He tells her about the other high school boyfriend, the one he refused to have sex with and who spread the rumor that Castiel was diseased, turning childhood friends against him.  Anna listens quietly, interrupting occasionally to ask for clarification or whisper encouragement.  When Castiel stops to gather himself, she waits patiently.  Finally, he tells her about the undergrad boyfriend who cheated and begged forgiveness and cheated again; who filled Castiel’s head with a never-ending string of criticism and comparisons to the other guys he was fucking.  

“Brian gives better blow jobs” and “Jeff has a bigger dick” and “You’d be sexier with more muscle” and “Why can’t you just be more enthusiastic?”    He had spent a year and a half tearing Castiel’s self worth down bit by bit until there was nothing left, then abruptly broke off their relationship and sadistically rubbed every new “boyfriend” in Castiel’s face for the next year and a half.  Castiel circles back to the way Dean flirts shamelessly with everyone and how charming and gorgeous he is and how even if he doesn’t act on it, he could have any guy he wanted.

When he’s finished, Anna is quiet for a long moment.  Castiel’s chest clenches tight as he continues to stroke down Aslan’s back, more to soothe himself than the cat.  He leans his head back against the arm of the chair and wipes the wetness from his face, then wraps his arms tighter around the kitten.

“You should talk to him, Castiel,” Anna says at long last.  Her voice is gentle when she continues.  “It isn’t fair to penalize him for not knowing things you’ve never told him.”

It’s simple when she says it that way and he nods as though she can see.  The worst that can happen if he talks to Dean is that he’ll be told off and pushed out the door again, but at least then he’d know there was no hope.

“I will talk to him tomorrow,”  Castiel murmurs.  Aslan bumps against his chin, demanding further attention.  After another pause, he adds,  “Thank you, Anna.”

“Let me know how it goes.”  He can hear the smile in her voice and he knows she means it.

***

Saturday morning finds Castiel on edge.  He wakes at five, two hours before his alarm is set to go off, and nearly springs out of bed with nervous energy.  He goes for a long run in the cool early-autumn morning; a big circle that ends up, as always, at the park near his home.  The sun is just coming up, birds are beginning their morning songs and branch squabbles; and for a moment, Castiel can relax in the solitude and forget what he has planned for the day.

When he finally heads back toward home, his stomach starts to knot with worry again.  He tries to stay relaxed as he goes about his morning routine, but the whispering voice in the back of his mind is on high alert.  Too anxious to eat, he feeds Aslan and knocks the scruff on his face down to manageable stubble, then takes a long, scalding shower.  The water is refreshing and he lingers even longer than normal, spending the time rehearsing what he will say to Dean.

The run was a good idea, he decides as he studies himself critically in the full-length mirror.  He pokes at his stomach and stares at his thighs and chest, feeling self-conscious even though he’s alone.  With a sigh, he slips into his favorite pair of faded bluejeans and a his faded peace sign t-shirt.

At eleven o’clock, Castiel can’t bring himself to wait any longer.  He feels safer with the element of surprise on his side, so he doesn’t call ahead this time.  He hopes that Dean will be both at home and awake when he gets there.  It’s a short drive from his house to Dean’s and he parks in front and takes a moment to compose himself.  He looks in the rearview mirror and only sees a scared teenager masquerading as a nearly-thirty-year-old.  Now or never, he decides with a shake of his head.

Mercifully, he has little time to worry about how he will be greeted.  Dean answers the door fairly quickly, clad only in loose black shorts.  The vision of the tanned expanse of his freckled chest and his messy morning hair takes Castiel’s breath away.  The shy smile that lights Dean’s face gives Castiel courage.

“Hello, Dean.”  He smiles tentatively and steels himself, hoping his nervousness isn’t as obvious as it feels.  “If you’re not busy, I thought maybe we could talk?”

“Hi, Cas.”  Dean steps back from the doorway to let him in, still smiling.  “Are you hungry?  I was just about to make breakfast.”

Castiel perches atop the chair he considers “his” at the breakfast bar as Dean starts to bustle around the kitchen.  He considers starting with smalltalk, but knows he’ll end up losing his nerve; so, he begins with: “I’m ready to answer your question now.”

Dean busies himself with cooking eggs and bacon and with keeping Castiel’s mug full of coffee.  He shows little reaction aside from a cocked head to show he’s listening and the occasional flash of an expression Castiel can’t decipher.  Dean listens as quietly as Anna did; with his own occasional interruptions.  Castiel is able to recount his romantic failures to Dean without tears, for which he is eternally grateful.

“What was his name?”  Dean asks softly in the middle of the tale of the college boyfriend.

“Zachary.”  Dean nods and Castiel continues.  When the bacon and eggs are finished, Dean fills two plates.  He sets one on the breakfast bar in front of Castiel and keeps the other as he stands in his usual spot on the other side of the counter.  Castiel pushes the food around on the plate with his fork, not feeling particularly hungry as he finishes telling his story.

“Before I met you,” he tells Dean, “I saw the way you flirted with other people.  I saw how charming you are and how people responded to you.”

He looks up to see that Dean is watching him with a guarded expression, idly pushing the food on his plate around, too.

“And I thought..  ‘He’s smart and good looking and popular and he could have any guy he wants, so why the hell would he want me?’ and it was easy to believe you were just like all the others.”

Dean looks down at his plate and pushes it away; Castiel does the same.  His stomach twists with worry when Dean doesn’t say anything, his mouth dry with the bitterness of his coffee.  When Dean looks up again, his eyes are shining.

“About that.”  Castiel watches as Dean takes a deep breath.  He forces himself to hold Dean’s gaze despite the fact that he wants to bolt again.  “I’ve made some mistakes, Cas.”

Castiel’s heart drops into his stomach, but he swallows down the rush of nausea and listens.

“I met Victor when we were undergrads back in Kansas.  He was the first man I fell in love with.  And I did love him; but I was young and stupid and sex was easy to get. I cheated on him more times than I can remember.  That’s why he finally got his shit together and dumped me.”  He stops and picks up his fork only to push the bacon around on his plate again.

Castiel closes his eyes as he tries to fight down the urge to throw up.

“But,” Dean continues quickly, “I’ve never cheated on anyone else.  I haven’t cared enough to put myself in the position to cheat.”

Castiel opens his eyes again to find Dean watching him, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“What is that supposed to mean?”  He asks when Dean doesn’t say any more.

“I never get involved beyond sex.”  Dean’s candid reply surprises Castiel, but not as much as what follows.  “I’d like to, though.  With you.  If you’d give me the chance.”

Castiel considers it, taking a drink of his coffee, then pushing his plate further away as he stares at the uneaten food.  He desperately wants to give Dean a chance, but the voice in the back of his head is hissing warnings of catastrophe and heartache.  He makes a compromise with himself, finally looking back up to meet Dean’s anxious gaze.

“Could we..”  His voice falters and he clears his throat.  “Would it be okay to go slow and see what happens?”

Dean face lights with the boyishly lopsided smile that makes Castiel’s heart skip a beat and he answers, “I’d like that even more” before he picks up a piece of bacon and starts to eat.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean quickly learns that when Castiel said ‘slow’, he meant it.  The tension of being in the same room without touching is painful at first, leaving Dean constantly on edge.  He couldn’t say exactly when the ‘thrill of the chase’ gives way to ‘courtship’, but it does.  Castiel becomes a regular fixture at Dean’s house to watch a movie or a football game, or to have a quiet dinner.

The dates-that-aren’t-dates start awkwardly, with Cas on the opposite end of the couch every time, guarding his words and his posture.  Soon enough, they sit side by side.  Sometimes they sit close enough that their thighs brush and Castiel doesn’t pull away and that makes all the frustration and fantasies and masturbation worth it in Dean’s eyes.  

He also learns, quite by accident that Castiel is _scared_ by horror movies.  Somewhere near the middle of _Psycho_ , he feels Castiel’s fingers lace through his, a tight hold with a sweaty palm as Cas gasps, eyes glued to the screen in terror.  When the fear passes, his grip loosens, but doesn’t pull his hand away.  Dean uses this newfound knowledge to his advantage, choosing horror movies just a little more often, though he’s pretty sure Castiel doesn’t mind.

The first time Cas invites Dean to go bird watching with him, Dean is bored to death.  The park is nice, he guesses, but it’s cold and nearly November and much too early in the morning for so much _nature_.  He sips his coffee while Castiel chatters excitedly about the birds flitting from branch to branch and making an awful racket.  Dean forces himself to pay attention, though, and soon figures out that his birdwatching companion can tell the little squawking sons-of-bitches apart.

“That’s Michael,” Castiel explains, pointing. “He reminds me of my eldest brother.  They’re both loudmouthed bullies.  See how he chases all the others away from his branch and even the branch below?  It’s because Michael _knows_ he doesn’t deserve the best branch.”

Dean laughs at the analysis and Castiel smiles shyly in return.  Castiel doesn’t argue when Dean reaches over to thread their cold fingers together.  It delights Dean to know that every bird within view has been named and given a thorough life history to account for its personality.  The next time Cas asks Dean to go, he agrees eagerly, ready to hear all the treetop drama that’s gone on in the interim.

The worry that he would get bored with this slow path turns out to be unfounded.  Somehow the evenings spent sitting on Castiel’s living room floor, giving half his attention to playing with the little black cat who makes him sneeze and half his attention to grading essays, are more rewarding than the best blow jobs from a guy he’ll never see again.  Castiel’s house is small and lived in from floor to ceiling, while Dean’s looks like a magazine ad; full of expensive furniture, and nothing to give insight into its owner.

Dean’s favorite thing to do is give Castiel off-the-wall compliments.  He started early on with the stock variety: “You’re so good looking” and “Damn, you’re smart,” but Castiel had brushed them off politely. It wasn’t until he started getting creative with the compliments:  “Teaching your cat to play fetch is the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen, and by the way, that shirt makes your eyes look even bluer” that Castiel started responding, latching on to the former graciously while the latter hitched a ride.  Cas hasn’t said anything, of course, but when he smiles and his eyes squint and his nose crinkles, Dean knows he’s hit the mark.

When Victor comments on how much he sees the men together on campus and speculates on what might be happening off-campus, Dean is quick to correct his misconceptions about Castiel.  He seems surprised by Dean’s assertion of “just friends”, wishing their _friendship_ the best of luck before walking away.  That is when Dean finally gets that it wasn’t about who he was sticking his dick in; it was about how it made Victor feel.  

He chases Victor down and looks him in the eye, giving an awkward and heartfelt apology for being such a shitty boyfriend all those years ago.  It isn’t the first time he’s apologized, but it’s the first time he’s understood what he _should_ be apologizing for.  When Dean finally spits it out, Victor reaches up to trace a finger and thumb over his close cropped goatee as he studies Dean thoughtfully.  When he smiles, it’s like sunshine on his face.  He claps Dean on the shoulder, congratulates him on his “friendship” again, and walks away chuckling.

When December rolls around, Dean agonizes over whether or not he should invite Castiel on an honest-to-god date to one of the more romantic Snowflake Festival events.  Things are going so well and Cas has finally relaxed; the last thing Dean wants to do is push him away again.  He asks both Sam and Ellen for advice, but gets only gentle ribbing and platitudes; both of which are unhelpful.

*****   *****

When he asked Dean if they could take things slowly and see what happened, Castiel never expected anything to come of it.  He’d certainly hoped that Dean could be patient, but he _thought_ he would just get bored and move on to the next guy.  Dean is full of surprises, though. The awkwardness of the time they spend together in the first weeks is almost unbearable because Castiel has no idea what to _do_ with himself.  

He’s afraid to touch Dean or even to look at him for longer than necessary for fear of starting something he can’t finish again.  Castiel wades in slowly, a brush of fingers against Dean’s arm here and letting their thighs press together while they’re distracted by a movie there.  Dean seems to enjoy the chaste touches; Castiel catches Dean smiling to himself, and he never pushes for more.

Castiel doesn’t know exactly when he stops being afraid.  It’s probably somewhere around the middle of _Psycho_ when he finds himself terrified and grabs for Dean’s hand.  His fingers fit as though they were made to be there, his sweaty palm pressed to Dean’s as he tries to find reassurance in the touch.  When he isn’t scared anymore, he’s thrilled instead, and he can’t bring himself to pull his hand away again.  Before long, when Dean picks a scary movie, Castiel laces their fingers together before it even starts.

Dean cooks for Castiel and, eventually, lets him help out in the kitchen.  When Castiel’s in motion, it’s easier to relax and not overthink everything.  After tripping over one another a few times, they seem to slip into an awareness of where the other is as they move around the kitchen.  Sometimes Dean looks over Castiel’s shoulder to check on the sauce he’s stirring and Castiel’s heart skips a beat at the warm puff of breath on the side of his neck; sometimes Castiel will press fingertips to the small of Dean’s back to move him over and he can feel Dean shiver.  Cooking quickly becomes Castiel’s favorite shared activity, even if it does lead to more jerking off when he goes home than it probably ought to.

He shares his life with Dean, too.  The first time they go birdwatching, Dean is antsy.  They sit quietly, watching the birds gather on the treetops until the need to share what makes it so amazing overwhelms Castiel and he begins to tell Dean what he’s been observing over the past three months.  When he starts to point out the different birds, Dean’s delighted laughter rings out in the early morning.  In only a few minutes, Dean is pointing out birds himself and asking for their stories.  When Dean reaches for his hand, Castiel squeezes and points out the lovers on a low branch with their faces tucked into one another’s necks against the cold.  He’s pretty sure they’re Dean’s favorites.

Late in November, Dean mentions the Snowflake Festival again in passing; so one rare morning when Castiel is alone in Harvelle’s with Ellen, he asks her about it.  She grins and tells him that it’s where she and her late husband had their first real date.  The thought piques Castiel’s interest, so he presses for more information. Ellen tells him that the Wonderland of Trees takes place on the Winter Solstice, culminating in the Tree Lighting Ceremony, where it’s customary for couples to kiss for good luck.  She tries to hide her smile when she adds the last bit, off-handedly, but she has a terrible poker face.

Castiel tucks away the knowledge, turning it over and over in his head before putting it away.  Every day, he brings it out again and thinks it over and decides that tomorrow he’ll think about it again.  Sometimes when he catches Dean staring, he could swear there’s a question looming in those green eyes.  But, every time, Dean smiles and doesn’t ask.  As one day stretches into the next, Castiel grows more and more comfortable with the thought of asking Dean out on a _real_ date.  The last time he pulls out his secret stash of information, he decides that tomorrow, December 14 th, he will ask.

***

“Dean?”  They’re in Castiel’s living room, laptops and half-graded essays strewed across the floor while Dean busies himself by tickling Aslan’s ears with a string. 

“Hmm?”  Dean doesn’t look up since Aslan has caught on and is batting at the string.

“I..  uhm. Well, I..”  Castiel’s heart lodges itself firmly in his throat, pounding as the whispering voice he’s managed to appease for weeks makes known that it hasn’t given up.  Dean drops the string on Aslan’s head and looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes.

“What’s up, Cas?”  Castiel can tell Dean is trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a worried undercurrent in his voice.  He feels Dean’s fingers thread through his and it makes his breath come shallow and quick.

“Would you like to go to the Wonderland of Trees with me?” It comes out breathier than he might’ve liked, but at least he gets it out.  Dean blinks in surprise and squeezes Castiel’s hand; Castiel’s stomach twists with worry and the whispering voice mocks him for thinking it was a good idea to ask.

“I would love to go with you,” Dean answers, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klamath Falls does indeed have a yearly Snowflake Festival, but I played _really_ fast and loose with the timing and timeline. _It actually takes place the first week of December and the Wonderland and Tree Lighting are on different days. Also, sadly, the traditional kiss for good luck Ellen mentions is entirely fictional. They should get on that._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some strong allusions to body image issues (Castiel's) in this chapter.

December twenty-first comes on the heels of a snowstorm, leaving the whole of Klamath Falls thickly blanketed in sparkling white.  When Dean picks Castiel up in the late afternoon, he immediately notices that his date is nearly vibrating with nervous energy.  Castiel climbs quietly into the Impala with barely a glance at him, but Dean swallows down his disappointment.  He’d hoped their date would be easy, but it seems like nothing is ever easy with Castiel.  The short drive is mostly smalltalk and silence and Dean feels his own nervousness growing.

When they reach the event, Dean rounds the car while Castiel is still pulling on his gloves.  Castiel looks up at him and smiles tentatively before he lets out a slow breath that steams in the cold air.  Dean reaches out and buttons the top button of Castiel’s coat, then fixes his hat, and to his pleasant surprise, Castiel doesn’t pull away.  He offers his own gloved hand and Castiel takes it without hesitation.  Bundled against the cold, they make their way through the snow to mingle with the other brave souls who came out into the twilight to celebrate the Solstice and tree lighting.

Since it’s the first official day of winter break for Bear Valley College, there’s an infectious celebratory vibe in the air to mix with the Christmas music.  The men take their time walking down the wide, tree-lined path that meanders through the park as Castiel keeps stopping to marvel at snow-heavy branches and the way the Christmas lights play off the snow in the growing darkness.  They run into Ellen who gives Castiel a conspiratorial wink.  When Dean looks at Cas, he just smiles enigmatically and turns his attention to discussion of the fact that Jesus wasn’t _actually_ born in December; adding that the lights are very pretty nonetheless.

Dean finally manages to drag Castiel away from the conversation that has grown to span the first three centuries of Christianity.  They continue down the path, gloved hands clasped tightly against the cold.  The smell of cotton candy and cider fill the air as they reach the small market set up at the other end of the stroll, and it’s Castiel’s turn to drag Dean.  With hot apple cider and a shared puff of the sickly sweet candy in hand, they amble from stall to stall, looking at the crafts and other goods for sale.

Castiel picks up a handmade bracelet for Anna and Dean finds a necklace for Jess and a local underground band’s CD for Sam.  They make their way to the edge of the marketplace, half in the shadows as they take a seat on a cold wooden bench that’s been cleared of snow.  They sip their rapidly cooling drinks in easy quiet and soak in the festive atmosphere, but Dean can feel the nervous energy from the car wrapping itself between them again.

“You don’t have to kiss me, Cas.”  Dean says finally.  Castiel turns a little too quickly to look at him, nearly spilling cider in the process.

“What?”

“I know everyone talks about it like it’s some big deal,” Dean says, shrugging under his thick coat.  He smiles at Castiel, pleased with himself for letting them both off the hook.  “But it’s okay.  I don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies, looking away and nodding, the fuzzy ball on the top of his hat wriggling emphatically in the air as he does.  Dean would almost swear he sounds disappointed when he adds, “Okay.”

They drop back into silence, sharing the cotton candy, and watching the crowd grow, safe in their little piece of the park that’s off the beaten path.  When Dean sees the crowd starting to gather around the tallest tree, the only one that’s not lit, he stands up and pulls Castiel with him.  It’s dark and he’s freezing and although he hadn’t had high expectations, he _had_ hoped for a kiss.  Once the tree is lit, he can at least go home, where it’s warm.

They stay at the edge of the crowd as people jostle past them, pushing them closer and closer together until it’s just easier for Dean to slip his arm around Castiel’s waist instead of trying not to.  To his surprise, Castiel leans into the touch.  He smiles, but doesn’t dare look.  On the platform in front of the city’s Christmas tree, the mayor and a few others wait while the music changes to _Silent Night_.  Dean can feel Castiel shivering against him as everyone starts to sing and by the end of the song, Castiel’s head is rested against his shoulder.  He squeezes tighter and leans his head against the top of Castiel’s.  

The mayor gives a predictably boring but mercifully short speech about how wonderful Klamath Falls is and how blessed its citizens are and how, by the way, if you’re here with your sweetie make sure to get that kiss for good luck.  As the mayor speaks, Castiel shifts as though he’s trying to get comfortable against Dean’s body, but when the platform lights are dimmed and a murmur goes through the crowd; he stands up straight.  Dean lets him go and straightens up, too.  

The switch is thrown to light the big tree, and Dean draws a deep breath, but before he can let it out, Castiel’s cold, chapped lips are pressed to his.  There is no time to react before Castiel pulls away again, smiling, to say: “I’m cold, Dean.  Can we go now?”

On the way back to the Impala, Dean invites Castiel to come back to his house since it is both closer and stocked with more apple cider.  Cas agrees quickly and spends the drive chattering nervously about the Pagan history of Christmas trees.  Dean chuckles fondly as he gets the full rundown of how Christianity appropriated those and a lot of other things, too, thank-you-very-much.  When they make it into the house, they peel out of their heavy winter coats, hats, and boots.  A thick silence settles between them.

Dean turns away to hang up their coats, and when he turns back, he finds those ridiculously blue eyes so close he can barely focus.  He draws a sharp breath as he feels the warmth of Castiel’s breath on his cold lips.  Castiel blinks slowly and inhales and when he opens his eyes again, there’s a smile playing on his lips.

“I’d like to kiss you again, Dean.”  He whispers.

“Would you?” Dean’s voice comes out an undignified croak.

“Yes.”

“All right.”

Dean closes his eyes as Castiel’s lips find his again, they’re still cold and chapped but this time the kiss lingers.  Castiel’s fingers are icy when they come to rest on Dean’s waist, over the top of his shirt.  He pulls back to look at Dean, then leans in to kiss him again.  Castiel takes his time pressing his lips hard and then soft.  It’s nice and Dean reaches up to palm Castiel’s jaw and kiss him in return.  Castiel’s lips part eagerly with the lightest probing, allowing Dean to kiss him properly.  Their lips and tongues slide wetly between panted breaths until finally, Dean pulls away.

“Hey..”  He tries to get his bearings and ignore the throbbing of his cock so he can think.  He opens his eyes to find Castiel staring, wide-eyed and breathless.  “Are you..  are you sure?”

Castiel answers by leaning in to kiss him again, cold fingers tightening on his waist as they try to push under his shirt and find skin.  Dean leans back against the wall, pulling Castiel along until his thigh is settled between Castiel’s.  His hands find Castiel’s hips and slide under the hem of his shirt to the warmth of his skin.  Castiel whimpers into his mouth and shivers, but only kisses harder.  Dean can feel Castiel’s stiff cock grinding against his leg and he pushes up as he splays his fingers around Castiel’s waist, squeezing and pulling him down.

When Castiel breaks the kiss, Dean tenses, afraid he’s pushed too hard again until he feels the cold bridge of Castiel’s nose pressed against the line of his jaw to tilt his head away.  Dean groans when Castiel’s lips find his neck, hot wet kisses mixed with a tease of teeth.  He pulls Castiel down harder against his thigh until he’s panting and writhing and grabbing at Dean’s shirt.

“Dean,” he murmurs in the hollow beneath Dean’s ear, then, “ _Dean_..”

“Yeah?”  Dean tries to force himself to think past the hot press of Castiel’s lean body and the lips brushing his neck and jaw with soft kisses.  He kisses Castiel’s neck as he slides his hands up his sides, waiting for an answer.  It doesn’t come, though Castiel is rutting steadily against his thigh with soft whimpers and growled “oh”s.

He finally opens his eyes and to look at Castiel.  The thin blue ring around his pupils and the flare of his nostrils tell Dean everything he needs to know.  He surges forward, pushing Castiel back a step and reaching up to frame his face and pull him in for another kiss, hard and jaws wide and growling.  They trip and stumble their way up the stairs, shedding clothing, kissing and groping as they go, until they end up in Dean’s bedroom.

At the edge of the bed, Dean stops and pulls back, once again holding Castiel’s face gently.  He strokes his thumb over the sweep of Castiel’s cheekbone.  “Is this what you want, Cas?”

Castiel reaches up to pull one of Dean’s hands away from his face and pushes it down his body.  When Dean’s fingers brush over the hardness of Castiel’s cock, now covered only by thin boxers, they both gasp.  Dean leans in to kiss him again, palming his cock through fabric.  Castiel shudders, hips jerking rhythmically into the touch as he tips his head back away from the kiss.  Dean presses a light kiss to Castiel’s throat then lets his lips trail down in a line of wet nibbles as he drops to his knees.  Castiel tenses and looks down to meet his eyes.

 “It’s all right,” Dean whispers as he presses open-mouthed kisses to Castiel’s stomach.  “You’re okay.”  

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Castiel’s boxers, nipping and kissing at his stomach and hip until he relaxes.  Castiel’s hand comes to rest on top of Dean’s head, stroking, and Dean pulls Castiel’s boxers down to the floor, freeing his cock.  He lets the head of Castiel’s cock rub against his stubbled cheek and murmurs against the sharp jut of his hipbone, “Sit down.”

Castiel follows his command, sitting on the edge of the bed and Dean reaches up to palm his inner thighs and spread them wide.  Cas gasps and tries to push them back together, but Dean’s head is already in the way, alternating sharp bites and sweet kisses to the tender skin of his leg.  Castiel growls and tries to find purchase in Dean’s hair; unperturbed, Dean keeps kissing and licking in a slow path up the inside of his thigh.  When Dean’s nose brushes against his drawn up balls, Castiel shivers from head to toe and Dean feels his toes curl.

“God..”  Cas whimpers, any further words choked in his throat when Dean starts to suck at the loose skin.  He reaches up to wrap his fingers around Castiel’s cock, sliding the pad of his thumb over the leaking slit then pressing it under the crown to find the sensitive spot.  He rubs slowly back and forth, and Castiel’s hips come up off the bed.  Dean tongues his balls and starts to stroke his cock slowly until Castiel is panting raggedly and twisting his hips, moaning as though he’s in agony.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean growls, “you should see yourself right now.”

Castiel whimpers incoherently as Dean leans to replace his hand on Castiel’s cock with his mouth.  Cas jerks up, pushing Dean down with surprising strength, crying out hoarsely when he hits the back of Dean’s throat.  Dean looks up through his lashes to see the perfect triangle of Castiel’s jaw, the long line of his throat.  He groans around Castiel’s cock and sucks harder, bobbing up and down quick and dirty, palms again pressed to Castiel’s inner thighs to spread him out.  Castiel doesn’t fight this time.  He fucks up into Dean’s mouth, still clawing at the back of Dean’s head as his body curls.

“Shit _shit_ ,” he moans, his hips jerking up in erratic thrusts.  Dean relaxes and lets Castiel fuck his mouth, his moans rising in pitch until they’re soft cries of pleasure and his stomach is pressing against Dean’s nose; cock buried in his throat so deep Dean gags.  The tight clench of Dean’s throat is what does Castiel in and with an impressive stream of curses and promises to God, he twists his hips savagely, his cock pulses thick and hot, and Dean tries to swallow every last drop of come between bouts of choking.

Castiel’s body goes limp and he collapses backward onto the bed, his stomach and thighs twitching as the rest of his body trembles.  He moans softly, raw and wrecked noises that rumble up from deep in his chest while his fingers curl and release in the blanket.  Dean pulls off Castiel’s cock slowly, trying to fight down the urge to cough as he returns his attention to Castiel’s balls.  He laps up the come he missed, tongues deep under the sac until Castiel is growling and squirming again.

Dean smiles, pleased with himself, then presses a chaste kiss to the softened head of Castiel’s cock.  He drags himself up from his kneel, shedding his underwear as he goes.  Castiel opens one eye to look at him as he crawls on the bed.

“Good?”  Dean asks and Castiel just laughs and nods, still a little breathless.  Dean slides further up onto the big bed, leaning to grab lube and a condom from a bedside table before he tugs at Castiel’s still-limp arm.  His voice is thick with desire, a rough purr, when he tells Castiel:  “C’mon, now I’m _really_ gonna make you feel good.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow skeptically, but he follows and Dean nudges his hip to get him to roll over.  On the other side of the bed, there’s a full-length mirror.  Castiel looks up to see their reflections, then buries his face in the covers with a groan.  Dean has been planning this since nearly the second Castiel told him about Zachary’s fucked up head games.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispers against the back of Castiel’s neck, feeling the hairs stand on end with the warmth of his breath, “You don’t have to look until you’re ready.”

“I’ll never be ready,” comes Castiel’s muffled reply.

“Okay,” Dean answers, smiling against Castiel’s shoulder.  “That’s okay, too.”

He lays a line of kisses across Castiel’s shoulders from the tip of one to the tip of the other as he palms Castiel’s ribs.  Dean’s cock is still rock hard, leaking against his thigh, and as much as he wants to be gentle and go slow, he also wants to tear Castiel apart.  He mouths over the thin skin of Castiel’s neck as he reaches for the lube and opens it with one hand.  He sits up and lubes his fingers carefully, staying close to Castiel as he does so.

When he looks back up, Castiel is watching him in the mirror.  He smiles and holds Castiel’s eye as he leans down, letting his fingers find the cleft of Castiel’s firm ass and slide down.  Castiel shivers, but he doesn’t look away.  Dean moves slowly, teasing a fingertip against tense muscles as he kisses Castiel’s neck and whispers praise.  Castiel blushes deep pink and starts to relax again, slowly, as Dean’s fingertip circles his hole.

Dean dips his head and bites Castiel’s shoulder sharply as he presses one finger in slowly and Castiel moans and pushes back.  His thighs spread as Dean starts to pull his finger out and push it back in again, still moving slow and easy, pressing kisses and nips to the side of Castiel’s neck as he goes.  He looks up and catches Castiel’s eye in the mirror again, murmuring, “You like that?”

“Yeah, I..   _yeah_..” Castiel answers breathlessly.

Dean takes his time fucking Castiel’s ass open with his fingers until he’s writhing on the bed, begging for Dean’s cock.  His ass is shoved up in the air, wriggling as his greedy hole tugs at three of Dean’s fingers and he looks like he’s going to cry if he doesn’t get fucked soon.  Dean’s waited so long for this that he’s afraid he’s going to come before he even gets inside.

He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on his thigh, then grabs the condom.

“Spread for me, Cas.  I want to see.”  Dean watches Castiel’s face in the mirror as he rolls the condom onto his dick with shaking hands.  He squeezes tight at the base of his cock as Castiel whimpers and blushes deeper red.  Castiel moves agonizingly slowly, but he manages to get his knees under him and reach back to spread his ass cheeks for Dean.

With the addition of more lube, Dean is ready.  He moves up behind Castiel; looking down to see the white marks Cas’ fingers are leaving as he struggles to keep his ass spread.  His hole is pink and ready and Dean looks him in the eye in the mirror; he describes how obviously ready to be fucked and needy and beautiful Castiel is like this until the blush extends to the tops of Castiel’s shoulders.  He never looks away from Dean’s eyes.

Dean presses the head of his cock to Castiel’s ass and pushes his hips forward slowly, one hand curling around a sharp hipbone to hold him steady.  Castiel gasps as Dean’s well-lubed cock starts to slide in.  Dean moans and closes his eyes as he feels Castiel’s ass pulling at his hardness, and Jesus fuck if it isn’t the best thing he’s felt in months.  His own hand doesn’t compare.  He goes slowly until he’s halfway in, then he thrusts forward hard, burying himself.  Castiel cries out, his body trembling, but when he starts to adjust, he grinds back onto Dean’s cock.

Dean pushes Castiel’s hands away from his ass and pulls halfway out to push back in.  He sets up a slow rhythm, one hand still gripping Castiel’s hip, the other palm pressed over his tailbone.  As he thrusts, he feels Castiel start to relax and their eyes meet in the mirror again.  Castiel is watching, slack-mouthed and panting, his face red and his eyes wild as Dean starts to fuck him harder.  The smell of lube and sex and the sound of skin slapping on skin fills the air.  

Castiel’s eyes half close and he licks his lips and Dean stares at the blissed-out vision in the mirror because it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.  He leans forward, letting his hand slide up Castiel’s spine until his fingers curl over the top of Castiel’s shoulder.  His body molds to Castiel’s as he bites the back of his neck to get his attention.  Castiel moans and jerks, shoving his ass back and grinding on Dean’s cock.

“Look in the mirror now, Cas.  Look at yourself.”  Castiel’s eyes move from Dean’s to his own and they go wide.  His hair is standing at odd angles, his cheeks are flushed bright, and his body is being jarred with Dean’s every ruthless thrust.  Castiel moans and licks his chapped lips as Dean’s lips find the curve of his ear with a whiskey rough growl.  “Look at how you want it.  You feel so good, so tight and hot, and I can feel your fucking ass clenching, greedy and filthy every time I move because you want it so.. fucking.. bad.”

“ _Dean_..” Castiel groans, shoving his ass back and rolling his hips to push Dean deeper.  Dean feels his cock bump against the hard knot of Castiel’s prostate and Cas’ body goes stiff.  He closes his eyes and groans in pleasure as Dean curls to fuck deep and grind into his ass.  The first hint of orgasm is curling around Dean’s balls, tight and shuddery and tingling down his inner thighs and up to his racing heart as he grunts and growls and fucks Castiel into the bed.  Castiel humps against the covers, pushing up against Dean and bouncing back down and Dean sees that Castiel is watching himself in the mirror again, tongue peeking out between his lips while he pants and whimpers.

Dean’s fingers close over the back of Castiel’s neck, shoving his chin down hard into the bed so that he can’t look anywhere but at the mirror.  He pounds into Castiel’s ass with quick, tight thrusts, not giving him room to move.  Castiel’s eyes widen as he watches himself being fucked soundly, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.  Dean grinds in and pulls back to slam in again, over and over until he feels Castiel’s ass clenching and releasing.  He fights against closing his eyes, moaning and scrabbling at the blanket, his hips pulsing into the bed as he comes again.  

“That is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Dean hisses between clenched teeth as he gives one final, stuttered thrust and his body seizes and spasms, the breath choked right out of him.  His cock stiffens and jerks, and he feels the spill of his come fill the condom, hot and tight around his over-stimulated skin.  He’s gasping and thrusting half-heartedly as he watches Castiel’s face go smooth with relief.  Dean moves his hand off Castiel’s neck and leans to press a kiss to the sweat slick skin.  He whispers softly, “ _God_ , you’re hot.”

Castiel closes his eyes and shudders, offering no argument before he turns his cheek to the blanket, his body limp and sweaty against the bed.  Dean pulls slowly out and gets rid of the condom before he lies down on his back beside Castiel, still gasping and shivering.  There’s no sound in the room except their ragged breath when he finally rolls over onto his side and strokes down Castiel’s tanned, muscular back.  He wants to say something, but he doesn’t want to break the spell.

At long last, Castiel turns his head to look at Dean.  His eyes are still glassy and his brow is drawn.  Dean watches as Castiel licks his lips.  He waits until Cas is ready to speak, still stroking across his shoulders and up and down his spine with a fingertip.  Castiel sighs with pleasure and shivers before he asks:  “Do you want me to stay?”

Dean grins and leans to press a kiss to Castiel’s forehead, whispering in return, “Do I ever.”

After a sleepy, teasing argument about who has to get up to get a towel, Dean gives in and goes to the bathroom.  He cleans himself up and brings back a cloth to clean Castiel up.  After tending to him, Dean makes quick work of the bed and chivalrously offers to sleep in the wet spot.  Castiel’s sleepy, throaty laugh at the offer makes Dean’s heartbeat quicken.

With the lights off and warm blankets piled atop their bodies, Dean curls around Castiel, chest pressed to back.  Castiel fits perfectly against him and he wraps his arms tight and presses soft kisses to the back of Castiel’s neck.  Dean feels Cas’ breathing start to even out, but finds himself suddenly wide awake.  He sighs and nuzzles against Castiel’s still damp hair, then asks, “Have I told you my favorite poem?”

“Nuh-uh,” Castiel answers a few second later.  

Dean clears his throat and whispers against Castiel’s skin..

_“i like my body when it is with_  
 _your body.  It is so quite new a thing._  
 _Muscles better and nerves more._  
 _i like your body.  i like what it does,_  
 _i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine_  
 _Of your body and its bones,and the trembling_  
 _firm-smoothness and which i will_  
 _again and again and again_  
 _kiss.  i like kissing this and that of you,_  
 _i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz_  
 _of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes_  
 _over parting flesh; and eyes big love-crumbs,_  
 _and possibly i like the thrill_  
 _of me under you so quite new_ ”

When he finishes, he can feel Castiel’s heart thumping and his breath coming shallow again.  Cas swallows, audibly, and whispers, “Dean, how do you expect me to sleep when you say things like that?”

“I’m sorry, Cas.”  Dean laughs softly and wraps his arms tighter around Castiel, holding him close until his breathing starts to even out again.  Suddenly, exhaustion hits Dean and he yawns and  closes his eyes.  Castiel is snoring softly as Dean snuffles against the back of his neck, pressing soft little kisses until he follows Castiel into dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean's poem is e.e. cummings' [i like my body when it is with your](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/i-like-my-body-when-it-is-with-your/).


	11. Chapter 11

When Castiel awakens, he’s alone in Dean’s bed.  He stretches and yawns and rolls over onto his back.  He takes his time coming around, rubbing his eyes and scratching his stomach and stretching again as he enjoys the big, comfortable bed.  He looks around in the soft morning light at the tastefully spartan furniture.  

It isn’t long before the scent of bacon makes his stomach rumble and convinces him to get up.  His body is sore and tacky with dried sweat and come, but he smiles to himself and rubs his face and lies there for another minute, savoring being well-fucked and not feeling _bad_ about it.  Castiel cocks his head, listens for the whisper of disapproval.  For the moment, there is only silence.

The smell of bacon grows stronger, mixed with fresh coffee, and Castiel’s stomach rumbles again.  He makes his way to the side of the bed and dangles his feet off and onto the soft carpet as he catches sight of himself in the mirror.  His shoulder is red where it was shoved against the bed, and there are bruises on his hip and the inside of one thigh.  He stares at his reflection, letting his eyes linger on the friction-pink of his cock head and his long-not-big muscles.  When he finally meets his own eyes, he’s able to linger there, too, for a moment before he looks away.

He pushes himself up with a groan and walks to the other side of the bed, stretching his long body out better as he moves.  He has just pulled on his boxers when Dean looks through the doorway and grins.

“I was afraid I killed you after all,” Dean says with an exaggerated wink.  Castiel chuckles and shakes his head, shyness creeping in.  Dean stands up straight and closes the two steps between them, then reaches up to cup Castiel’s jaw.  His voice softens as he presses their foreheads together.  “How are you feelin’?”

“Like a terrible cat owner,” Castiel replies flatly.  “I’m sure Aslan has starved to death by now without breakfast.”

Dean laughs sweetly and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Castiel’s lips before he pulls away.  “Breakfast is ready and your clothes are between here and the kitchen.  We’ll eat and then go make it up to Aslan, all right?”

“All right,” Castiel agrees easily, smiling and reaching for Dean’s hand as he follows him out of the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. <3


End file.
